


Legerdemain

by CrashingPetals



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: F/M, Nurelion is a grumpy old man who turns into a matchmaker, Quintus romance story, There will be sociopathic dragonborns abound, Well just one, because, because I felt like it, geeky alchemy extrapolations, he's a great matchmaker, i modded them off and he's surprisingly hot, imperial sarcasm, just imagine quintus without the huge sideburns and you're good to go, truestory, warrior/merchant class differences
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-30
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2018-05-30 03:14:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 81,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6406444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrashingPetals/pseuds/CrashingPetals
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Quintus likes his books.  He does not like the idle gossip that his customers eagerly exchange.  He likes his potions.  He does not like bumbling warriors with no taste for subtleties.  Yet somehow, he likes the wilderness in her eyes, the storm in her heart, the infuriating way she makes him stumble around his own confidence.  </p>
<p>On the other side of the coin, Wyn finds his alchemical talents about as useful as a dull sword.  But she finds it fascinating, this strange human who stains his fingers with crushed herbs and follows his master around like a kicked puppy.  If only she could work up the courage to tell him that she is, in fact, the legendary Dragonborn and not some backwater merc helping him for a few extra coins.</p>
<p>Ah.  The trials of the mighty Dragonborn.  She'd never expected this would be one of them...whatever this was.</p>
<p>It is a mystery, but then so is love.  </p>
<p>F!DB/Quintus Navale</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lady's Mantle

Chapter One | Lady's Mantle

The first time Quintus Navale laid eyes upon her, it was ten minutes to closing. Windhelm at night was cold and dangerous, what with the Butcher walking around freely. Most of their business was during the day, when it was safe to move around under the watchful, protective gaze of the guards. He thought it strange to see a customer so late. Stranger, even, that the customer was so…well, fierce.

She didn't seem to have any penchant for alchemy whatsoever. Warriors often didn't. They also often wrote off the spectacular uses of the trade as a waste of time and 'childish'. But this woman was like no warrior he'd ever seen. In fact, she was like no woman he'd ever seen. She stood tall, proud, wrapped up in tight black armor for which Quintus could not name. He had never before seen it in all his travels, few as they were.

His master was not happy to see her. He heard them bickering back and forth for a full minute before the telltale thump of potions told him that they were trading. That was when Quintus peered around the corner and watched the transaction. The woman noticed him, her eyes sweeping over his momentarily. But then his master said in his usual cranky voice, "This is all I can give you. Where'd you get all these potions anyway?" Nurelion began stacking them neatly behind the counter. Quintus inched closer and waited for the response, because he was wondering the exact same thing. There must have been near to twenty unopened vials, some of which were expensive.

The woman shrugged nonchalantly, weighing the coin purse Nurelion had shoved her way with a blasé expression. It wasn't nearly enough money to cover the more costly potions, but she didn't seem to care. She'd even thrown in an extra one for free because it was 'just wasting space'. 

"Oh, you know," she said, pocketing the money, "here and there." The answer was so maddeningly simple that it had Nurelion growling at her, insisting, "You don't just stumble upon a potion of Lingering Invisibility or any of these potent poisons! Do you know how much work goes into making these?! Of course you don't! You haven't spent time at an alchemy station even once, have you?!" The question, obviously rhetorical, made the newcomer a little offended. Quintus groaned under his breath, starting up the countdown he had come to perfect over the years spent working beneath his master's tutelage. (The countdown, that is, of how long the customer can stay before storming outside while muttering obscenities under their breaths.)

"Of course I have!" the Nordic woman exclaimed, her expression turning fierce, wild, and yet somehow…amused. Like she was playing a funny game in which she had already won. She had yet to learn that Nurelion did not play games, though. He just complained your ear off until you did exactly as he said and somehow, somehow made you want to please him. Quintus had first hand experience.

"Oh really?" the high elf said imperiously, with a heavy heaping of doubt in his voice. He glowered at the Nord and said, "What's the point of making potions if you don't even use them, you stupid girl?" Quintus swallowed a wave of exhausted disdain, which stemmed entirely from the words and the way they lilted so easily over his master's tongue. But the Nord didn't even blink at the insult. She completely ignored it, a feat that her other Nord brethren had yet been able to do. Something about Nords and their pride. Nurelion always had fun twisting them in circles with his wit, but this one seemed to have another agenda entirely, and it had nothing to do with playing into his hands.

The woman laughed a little and said slowly, like she was speaking to a child. (Quintus found himself sort of idolizing her by now, for no one had ever spoken to his master that way and it was exciting to watch.) "Obviously I make money off of them, old man." She said nothing about the fact that she did, on occasion, use her own potions. The health ones and the stamina ones and sometimes she'd coat the tips of her arrows with poison. But when she was raiding tombs or bandit camps or some such thing, she didn't like leaving the spoils of war behind. She thought it probably had something to do with the fact that her greedy dragon soul yearned for wealth and gold. 

Nurelion grit his teeth. It was definitely closing time by now, probably past closing time, but instead of kicking her out of his shop Nurelion just slammed his hand on the counter and said, oddly calm, "If you're so interested in making money, I've got a job for you. Otherwise you can get out of my shop, Nord."

Quintus fully expected to see her leave. But instead she raised an eyebrow and eagerly asked, "Job? Tell me what you want, old man." Nurleion didn't even blink at the apparent nickname she'd given him. He reached below the counter and pulled out his journal. And Quintus, who knew exactly what his master was going to say, finally stepped forward to put an end to it.

"Master…you don't even know if that exists. It would be a fool's errand to send this woman to fetch it! You're sending her to her death!" he knew that the woman was watching him now, possibly wondering why his words were so ominous. He knew that said words were only an annoyance to his master, but they had to be mentioned anyway. As he expected, Nurelion wasted no time in brushing him aside. "Quiet, boy! This is my life's work! I'll pay you generously if you can find it for me," he said to the Nord. Then he went off into his usual rampage about the White Phial and its multiple uses and how he's been searching for it for the better half of his life.

Quintus watched the woman nod her head, pocket the little, hastily scrawled picture of the Phial, and turn. He caught eyes with her for a split second before she gave him a smile and said, walking away, "I'll be back within a fortnight with your potion, old man." The arrogant lilt of her voice made Nurelion grumble as he watched her leave. Quintus faced his master and watched him label the new potions he'd bought from the Nord. And he really couldn't stop himself from blurting, "I can't believe you just sent that woman on a wild goose chase to find something that may or may not even be there."

Nurelion, in his usual biting manner, turned to Quintus and glowered, "If she's okay with gallivanting through draugr infested tombs on her off days, I'm sure the Nord will be fine with going through one more." 

Quintus, baffled, asked, "Why do you think she makes a point of raiding Nord burial tombs?!" Because since she herself was a Nord, Quintus found it difficult to fathom why she would desecrate her own ancestor's resting places. But Nurelion merely rolled his eyes and said grumpily, "The potions she gave me smell of death, boy. There's only one place they could have come from." He muttered something about 'crazy, stupid Nords' and stood straighter. A moment later he was walking for the stairs.  
"Make sure you lock the door before you go to sleep," he called as he ascended them. Quintus just stared at the potions lining the inner shelf of the counter and then glanced at the door, surprised and fascinated and maybe a little (a tiny bit) awed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to my new story! It's a Quintus/Dragonborn pairing, which is weird and unplanned on my part. It just sort of happened that way. This story is also on Fanfiction,net as well, under CrashingPetals. 
> 
> So...good? Bad? I appreciate reviews for improvement :) Thanks for reading!


	2. Legerdemain

Chapter Two | Morning Glory

The second time Quintus Navale laid eyes upon her, it was noon and the market was bustling. The strange Nord woman almost went entirely unnoticed at first. She just stood by the door, leaning against the threshold with her arms crossed and a supremely bored expression on her face, like she had just stepped out of some kind of amazing dreamscape and into mediocre reality. There were two other customers that needed to be dealt with before her and Quintus was hurrying to fill their orders. His master was upstairs resting (something he'd been doing much more recently), and he didn't even recognize her until he was ringing up the final customer's order. That was when he happened to glance her way and for the life of him, he couldn't understand how he hadn't realized it was her immediately. There was just something…odd about her. Like she was there but not there, in some unattainable and unreachable manner. It was something that even him, a normal middle class alchemist, could detect.

"Umm…you're back," he found himself saying after a moment of blatantly staring at her. He shook his head then, thinking how utterly stupid he sounded, and tried to write off his blush as embarrassment. But how those golden eyes shone, and made his heart palpitate and sizzle like fire salts on a hot day. It was because she looked different, of course. Because she was like no other Nord he had ever before encountered. The woman gave him a little smile. It was an odd twist of her lips and it didn't quite reach her eyes, just sort of spluttered out halfway up her cheeks. He immediately recognized it as one of those 'I'm-not-really-happy-but-I'll-pretend-to-be' smiles. 

The last customer left and she stepped up to the counter, leaning on it with one elbow like she owned it. It occurred to Quintus that perhaps the reason he hadn't recognized her was because she'd exchanged her armor. She was now wearing simple leathers. There was nothing outwardly interesting about them, not like the tight black armor she'd appeared in previously, but Quintus could detect the hint of an enchantment gliding through the material. That she was a Nord wearing enchanted armor only further piqued his interest.

"Where's the High Elf?" she asked bluntly, peering over at him. Quintus started and then chuckled a little nervously, probably because of the stark way she was staring at him. He had never before seen eyes so clear. It was almost as if she could see into his very soul, and past all the transgressions and evils he, as a lowly mortal, had experienced. Still, he held his own. This was his shop, after all, or at least would be some day, and he happened to be real good at talking to people and haggling and all manners of speech. So after a moment he merely said, "He's resting upstairs. I'll fetch him." And she blinked, watching him turn toward the stairs, wondering at the way he was able to brush her stare off. Not many men - or women - had been able to do that. Something about a dragon's eyes leering right into the soul.

She waited, bored, leaning against the counter. Upstairs she could hear the sounds of that High Elf's cranky old voice and could only imagine what he was grousing at. But then, presumably when he was told that she had returned, the old man let out an audible outcry and was soon hurrying down the stars, his apprentice following closely to make sure he didn't stumble. But the Altmer was surprising lithe even at his age, at least when it came to his life's work as he put it, and it took very little effort on his part to swing around the back of the counter and huff, "Well? Do you have it?" 

Quintus shook his head as he watched the transaction. He stopped a few feet away from the Nord woman, preferring to wait on her side of the counter as he watched. She didn't seem to notice, her eyes were trained to his master's expression and she looked almost amused. Not outwardly, of course, for her face was nothing short of serious and arrogant. But her eyes twinkled with such entertainment, and her mouth was subtly quirked up, that it was a wonder how his master did not notice. It probably had something to do with his excitement.

"Don't just stand there, you dumb Nord! Answer my question!" Nurelion ordered, clenching down at the sides of the counter as he jerked his eyes over the Nord woman's body, trying to find the phial he so desperately wanted. But she only shrugged, reached over to fling the small leather satchel at her side open, and took her time going through the contents of it. Every passing second seemed to make Nurelion that much more annoyed. In fact, Quintus was just about getting ready to step in when the woman finally produced the phial and set it on the countertop. The small white container all but glittered in the ray of sunlight that spanned over the room, like it was embedded with tiny crystals or some such stone. And Nurelion gaped and reached for it, gingerly and hesitantly lifting it into his palms.

His amazement lasted mere seconds. "Wait a moment…this is cracked. The Phial is cracked! Did you do this?" he demanded, turning toward the Nord woman. She raised an eyebrow and was about to answer, but Nurelion didn't let her. "I should never have trusted a Nord to bring back such an important and delicate artifact! How stupid have I been, to assign this task to such an incompetent, brutish - "

Two things happened then, at the crease of Nurelion's sentence. First, Quintus jumped up with a disappointed, "Master!" because he knew that Nurelion had definitely crossed the line with his overbearing insults. At the same time, the Nord woman coldly and almost frighteningly intercepted his words with some of her own, "It was cracked when I found it, Elf. I might be a bumbling, stupid Nord, but I can assure you that my line of work doesn't allow for such incompetency." And both Breton and High Elf stared at her in surprise, because the way her voice lilted and simmered in anger was like nothing they'd ever heard before. It didn't sound entirely…human, to be honest.

Nurelion brushed this off before Quintus did, preferring to keep arguing in favor of wondering at the strange character traits of their Nord acquaintance. He scowled, thrust the phial back onto the counter with none of the gentleness he'd had before, and muttered, "Well it's useless now. There's no way I can use it when it's cracked." And he didn't seem to notice the very strange half-amused half-furious sheen to the Nord's eyes, like she wasn't sure if she should laugh or demand payment. From her somewhat easy handling of the rather caustic situation, Quintus decided that she had gone through these types of sticky circumstances in the past. She had mentioned her 'line of work', whatever that was. Somehow, Quintus didn't see her as a mere trader though.

"Still, I did go delving into a draugr infested crypt for you, old man," she finally said, her voice flatter with repressed and accepted annoyance. She didn't look as furious as she had before, in the face of those brash insults. In fact, she looked almost calm now, like she was totally fine with Nurelion's anger and wasn't at all afraid of it. Once again, Quintus found himself a little bit in awe of her, of the way she so easily dealt with his very difficult master. Nurelion himself seemed to be less impressed.

He frowned, glanced at the phial, and scoffed, "Fine. Here, for your time and effort." And the last word was twisted, marveled with sarcasm and doubt. He tossed the woman all of five septims before retreating, leaving his life's work to sit on the countertop as he returned to his bed. 

Immediately, Quintus felt terrible. He had never been to a Nord burial crypt but he'd heard plenty of stories about them, about the terrors that awaited within their dusty and ancient walls. And while, according to his master, it seemed as though this woman frequented them quite a bit, it couldn't have been all that fun to go in search of something that was so obviously broken. And to receive five septims from the effort. And she'd risked her life. And Quintus thought she looked rather…alone, standing there in the shop, like she was waiting for something else to happen. Like she had returned to a very boring segment of her life and now had nothing left to live for. Perhaps that was a bit dramatic, but still…

"I…ah…" he coughed and she glanced over at him, looking bored and not really that upset and that was what bothered him most of all. Because Nurelion always made people upset, himself included, and it was unnatural for her to not be. He walked to the other side of the counter and grasped a coin purse containing his week's wages. He knew it probably wasn't enough but he really had no experience dealing with…mercenaries? Traders? Treasure hunters? And so he didn't think too hard on it as he lifted the purse into her view. "Here," he said, pushing it toward her, "You deserve much more than five septims for all your hard work. I'm…uh, I'm sorry about my master. He's been sick lately, it makes him crankier than usual and -- "

"It's fine," the woman interrupted. The expression on her face was strange but oddly refreshing, like she was trying to figure him out but couldn't. And it felt nice, to not be completely figured out, because most of the time it seemed as though he was. A simple alchemist, an Imperial living in Windhelm. Nothing interesting about him, he was utterly transparent. But the way she looked at him, like he was some sort of vivid and elaborate puzzle, made his heart pump ever faster. He swallowed, and her eyes trickled down to his neck to watch his muscles contract and pull. She seemed to be momentarily lost in her own thoughts. But then she said stronger, "It's fine. I don’t need the money anyway. Your old man should seek a cure instead of a myth. His illness is very severe." 

The abrupt change in the subject had Quintus squinting at her, frowning. He could see that she wasn't making any sort of barb or joke. She was being totally serious, but he couldn't see how. Even he wasn't sure what exact sickness his master suffered from, and while he could tell that it was getting gradually worse, he hadn't thought it had gotten that bad since the last time she'd been there, two weeks before. 

"A cure?" Quintus wondered, eyeing her carefully. She stared back, her golden eyes glowing like draconian silk, like fire smoldered with darkness. "What do you know of his illness…?" he asked after a moment of silence. He hoped she had some sort of knowledge behind her words, like she'd seen this ailment before, or knew someone that could help. But she only shrugged, drawing her eyes toward the window and saying slowly, "I do not know of a cure, exactly. I only see in his eyes the gathering exhaustion of death." Then, as if jolted out of…something, the Nord glanced back almost bashfully and said, "I apologize. I overstepped my boundaries." She made a show of closing up her satchel and missed the dark but reserved way Quintus's eyes glimmered at her.

"It's alright, many boundaries have been overstepped today," he said after a long moment, and the woman looked up to share a hesitant smile with him. She seemed stranger than she had before, when she'd just stepped into the shop. Then she was arrogant, twisted almost, set in her schedule and uncaring of those around her. Now she was different, vague but easy going, less arrogant and lighter. And yet there was a constant force of gravity that exuded through her presence like lead weights had been tied around her ankles. Quintus wondered at that, quietly and without notice.

"I have errands," she suddenly said, and he drew himself quickly out of is meanderings. It was noon, after all, of course she would have other places to be than inside a drafty alchemist's shop. He smiled, scratched the back of his neck, and nodded, "Ah, of course." Then he watched her turn, head for the door. And he really didn't know what, exactly, made him call her back, but suddenly he was blurting out, "Wait! Uh…your name." And when she just looked at him, all confused, he clarified in a quieter, more hesitant voice, "You didn't give me your name…"

She looked immediately surprised, shocked even, and Quintus thought of backing down because he was embarrassed. But this was his shop and he would be its owner and she was his customer and -- 

"My name…you don't already know it?" she asked, tilting her head curiously, eyes glimmering over his like she was expecting him to suddenly laugh and pull her name from a card in his sleeve. As if she was somehow famous or something. As if her name happened to be a hot commodity that everyone already knew, and she hadn't had to outwardly tell it to anyone in ages. He frowned and said, "…Why would I?" And, to his great surprise (and pleasure), the odd Nord woman chuckled. The sound was like water eroding rock, all gravel and deliciously low octaves that burned through her throat like fire would burst from a dragon.

"You don't get out much…do you?" she asked, golden eyes twinkling, smoldering, careening into his. And then, before he really had time to prepare himself, she was opening the door and tossing her name at him like a delightful after thought: "It's Wyn." And the odd name seemed to fit that odd woman, and trickled over his face like a peppering of wind as he watched the door close behind her, her enchanted-leather clad body disappearing from view.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Review if you feel inclined!


	3. Canis Root

The third time Quintus Navale laid eyes upon her, he didn't know it was her. It was the end of the week, and his master was well enough to tend to the store, so he was sent out to buy supplies around Windhelm. He had left the city walls in order to trade with the Khajit caravans, who often supplied them with rarer alchemy ingredients such as salts or moon sugars, and was heading back toward the hulking gates when it happened. 

Now Quintus had traveled plenty around Skyrim, but always on the roads and always for alchemical reasons or fieldwork. In all of his travels, he'd had hired warriors who protected him from some of the lesser evils of the wild. He'd thought the howl of a wolf was frightening. But the howl he heard then, which rolled over the snowy drifts and slammed right into his skin like ice, made his blood drain away. 

His first thought was something along the lines of hurrying back to the city before he was burned to death by dragon fire. That was before he saw the actual dragon, of course. But out of the corner of his eye he saw unfurling wings, bright golden eyes searing even at a distance, and for the life of him he couldn't move. He could only stop and stare, his mouth gaping open like a fish out of water. The dragon's eyes turned right on him, and Quintus found that he was shocked by the intelligence that gleamed through them.  
Weren't all dragons dumb beasts? He had heard plenty of tales, especially recently, about the winged terrors. But never had he heard of them being intelligent. And as he stared back with wide eyed fear, Quintus realized something very odd: he had seen those eyes before. Golden, shimmering, intelligent, manipulative. He had seen them in the strange silver haired Nord.

But he didn't have time to muse over his appreciation for the strange woman who had recently assaulted his every thought. Because at that moment, another dragon Shout was heard. But from the ground.

The dragon, who hung suspended in the air staring at him (at him!), immediately jerked his head away. The rest of its body followed like a languid stream. And yet there was nothing about this beast that seemed at all lazy. Its great claws, if he'd been standing beside them, were quite possibly the entire length of his torso and certainly had the power to split him down the middle in one strike. (If the stories had any truth to them, that is.) The beast's tail was flung out behind it as the dragon flapped its wings and flew toward the new sound. A tornado could have formed beneath those wings. Quintus shivered, hardly noticing the guards moving over the bridge, pulling out bows and arrows, getting ready to defend the city. 

He had half a mind to follow the other civilians as they rushed back inside the city gates. Any sane person would, of course. This was a dragon: a beast straight out of lore who could easily burn you to a crisp in one breath! And yet it was exactly that reason as to why Quintus lingered behind, pressed himself against a stone corner, and peered out into the snowy landscape of the White River. How his master would drool upon hearing his story! And wouldn't it be utterly dreamy to loosen a scale or a bone of that beast? To test the alchemical properties? He would be the very first, the first alchemist to ever discover the magical benefits of the huge, hulking, flying monster! Nurelion would be so proud, for once, to have him as an apprentice.

He was deep in his alchemical musings when something much more interesting happened. Before, he had thought little of that second Shout, which drew the dragon away from the city. He had wrote it off as a distracting welcome, had not given it much attention at the time because he was too overwhelmed by the relief of the dragon's attention breaking away from him. But then, somewhere to his left a city guard yelled in excitement, "Dragonborn! The Dragonborn has come to save us!" And that was when another Shout ripped into existence, loud even through the heavy torrent of always present wind. Directly after, the dragon's Voice retaliated in a very deep, very scratchy burst of icy particles. 

Quintus knew very little about dragons or anything, really, that didn't pertain to alchemy. He rarely left the shop and so he had little knowledge about public events. He knew even less of the city gossip, but was generally fine with not being in the loop. But now he wished he'd listened a bit harder to his customer's conversations as they waited in line at The White Phial. All talk of dragons and the Dragonborn, to be honest, didn't interest him as much as it probably should have. At the time, he had been far too busy ringing up a customer while explaining the necessary preventative actions one must take while using a volatile ingredient like fire salts. 

He'd completely missed all talk of dragons after that, because then he had to go and fetch some herbal potions in the back room that were quite popular recently, and the old woman who wanted them had a large order of other herbs and home remedy ingredients to buy which kept him very busy. Not that he had a problem with all that. Quintus loved his job more than any other thing. It was his pride and joy, being able to learn from such a renowned alchemist as his master. Even if he was mean and grumpy on his good days.

Anyway, Quintus didn't really know anything about dragons. His vision of them was somewhat narrow-minded and acute. He didn't ponder over their abilities because he was too busy pondering over the next batch of ingredients to purchase from the traveling merchants, and which potions needed restocking and what ingredients were getting too old for proper use. So naturally, in his mind, dragon's breathed fire and fought from the sky. But here was a dragon (a real dragon!) roaring out icy particles and then landing with a powerful, frighteningly loud thud on the ground. 

That wasn't, however, the part that actually shocked him. What really shook him up was the blurry figure of the fearless Dragonborn emerging from the foggy, icy snow, Shouting, and hacking at the dragon's limbs and belly so quickly that Quintus could barely keep up. He did not appreciate warriors all that much. They were loud and brash and had too much pride that usually got them nowhere. They came into his shop demanding health potions without even pausing to consider the intricacies and even dangers of brewing such a difficult elixir. No, he didn't really like warriors. But this he liked. Even though he was too far away to properly see the Dragonborn, even though they were just blurry figures in the snowy wind, Quintus could appreciate a sight like this one. And when the dragon finally received its death blow, and the Dragonborn turned into a golden halo of light, Quintus could not look away. 

It was only when the guards seemed to finally realize that he had still not gone back to the city walls that he was forced to turn his back on the scene. But never would he forget those golden eyes that blinked at him, or the sheer size of the beast as it hurtled toward the ground, or the dangerous glint of steel as the Dragonborn delivered strike after strike.


	4. Hemlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yay, two chapters! Apologies for saying I'd be updating 3 times a week and then disappearing off the face of the earth. I actually have a good portion of the story already written, it's just I keep forgetting to post new chapters D: Things are off to a slow start...won't be picking up for a while yet, but I promise there will be much more action soon! Thanks for reading and please feel free to leave comments, as they'll undoubtedly remind me to update ;)

The forth time Quintus Navale laid eyes upon her, he most certainly did know it was her, and was utterly taken aback by it. It had been a long time since he'd seen her last. So long that he had just begun to stop thinking about her night and day. (A little habit he'd picked up, for which he could not explain.) He was in the back room at the time, a heavy box under his arm that contained a new shipment full of ingredients from Solitude, trying to figure out where to place it on the shelf full of other labeled boxes. There was hardly any room left and Quintus knew that he'd have to spend an afternoon reorganizing, because the backroom was a total mess.

He didn't have time anymore, it seemed. His master stayed in bed most days, too weak to so much as move to the chair in front of the fire on the upper floor. Because he was essentially on his own, and spent most of his free time tending to his master, Quintus hardly had any time for himself or even the shop. He was frustrated and was angry at himself for being so, what with Nurelion on his death bed. Plus, he was trying very hard to figure out if there was anything he could do with the cracked Phial. When he wasn't tending to customers or his master or the shop, Quintus had his nose buried in old books, trying to find answers. It was maddening.

It was also late, not quite closing time but nearing the hour, when the shop door careened open rather loudly and he heard the heavy thud of booted feet in the main room. Quintus glanced up, sighed, and carefully placed the heavy box on the floor before the shelf. Then he called, "Just a moment, please." He hoped that whoever it was wasn't planning on causing trouble. He was ill equipped to deal with such a thing at this hour. Even so, a customer was a customer, and Quintus bravely stepped into the main room after a moment spent collecting himself, preparing for the worst. (He rarely had customers so close to closing, after all, and none of them swung the door so angrily or stomped into the room so noisily.)

But, as it turned out, he had no reason to be afraid or skeptical. It seemed that the strange, golden eyed Nord had a penchant for frequenting stores late at night, because here she was, and looking rather worse for wear too. For a moment, all Quintus could to was stare at her in surprise. He had, after all, nearly forgotten about her. (Nearly but not quite, because he still had odd dreams of her at night, and on his off days he'd sometimes see her face in the strangest of places.) 

But then he noticed how she was standing, sort of wounded like, leaning to one side, chalky looking. She also had ice and snow slapped into her hair, like she'd been running or flying at some incredible speed and it had been inevitable. Her eyes were not quite as brilliant as the last time they'd exchanged words. Quintus stopped staring and instead walked forward, reaching her just in time as she stumbled towards the counter.

"Woah! There we are," he muttered as he scrabbled forward to catch her. The door was still open and it was snowing outside, and the already drafty shop was now very drafty indeed. He cleared his throat and helped her to the counter, where she didn't look like she'd fall over on her own. She did get this far, he figured, so she was probably still aware of what was going on. Still, Quintus hurried to shut and bolt the door, closing off the windy snowy weather that happened to be normal for a city by the ocean. Then he rushed back to her, hands fluttering over her form, not quite sure if he should touch her now that she seemed to be standing upright against the counter.

"Uh…miss?" Quintus called hesitantly, looking down at her face. He now knew her name, but somehow it didn't feel right to call her by it. Too intimate, something reserved for close friends and family, people who knew her for years and years. Not some mediocre city alchemist who had apparently bit off more than he could chew. He frowned, "Where are you injured? I have health potions and -- " He was planning to say more, possibly regarding the new potions he had brewed only a week before, which were certainly ready for use. Maybe about how she probably came to the right place (if unconventional), because he could undoubtedly heal her, and for a fraction of the cost. But he was interrupted by one word as it came dribbling out of her lips. It was a word that froze him. 

"…Poisoned…" And that was when Quintus realized that tonight, he would not get any rest either.

His face darkened and he muttered a low, "I see." His alchemist's mind was already whirring, dipping over all the known poisons, and all the cure disease potions he had stocked in the back room. He knew intrinsically that, had it been an easy poison to cure, this woman wouldn't have risked her pride to come stumbling into his shop. Which meant that he'd probably have his work cut out for him. 

The first step was, of course, to get her to the back room and to his bed. It was the only free bed in the shop, since his master was using the one upstairs. So he decided to be brave about this since the situation called for it, and looped his arm around her waist and let her lean against him, and they half walked half stumbled around the counter and to the storage room where he often slept. The woman fell onto the bed with a heavy thud and a barely conscious groan, and Quintus crossed his arms, stared at her, and assessed the situation.

The armor had to come off but he had no idea how to get it off. Since he wasn't a warrior and had never worn armor, Quintus had absolutely no idea how to go about this. But he knew that this poison was already circulating through her bloodstream (if her state of consciousness had anything to say one the matter), and knew he'd have to act quickly. He rolled his sleeves up, lit a couple of candles for light, and knelt by the bed. She was wearing some kind of steel and hide leather this time. It was a lot of little buckles that strapped the armor tight to her body. He wasn't sure which ones were for show (if any), so he undid all of them. 

Quintus learned a lot about armor that night. He learned that it was ridiculously heavy and that it must be difficult to fight in it. He learned that it was made up of many parts that he could barely name, and that each part connected to the others in a series of belts and buckles to keep it all secure. He also learned that he was very glad indeed to not have to deal with such things on a daily basis, because by the time he'd gotten the main part of the armor off, he was exhausted.

But his work was only just beginning. He had to admit that he felt rather lecherous, pressing his fingers over her body. But there was nothin for it. In a matter of moments, Quintus found all her wounds, the superficial scratches as well as the major gash on her stomach, and hurried to get a closer look at it. 

Often times, a healer could tell a lot about the type of poison from the way the skin around the area reacted to it. While Quintus was no healer himself, he was certainly quite knowledgeable about poisons and had some innate understanding of how they worked, and how to detect them. And while it was often a guessing game (unless you were a healer and therefore had the necessary spells and incantations to truly know for sure), Quintus already had a good idea as to what the poison was.

The wound was not bleeding. It had initially but had stopped, and the thicket of blood around the cut was already dry and cracking. The gash itself was in fact dry as well, but also dark around the edges with an odd blackish residue. Already, Quintus knew that nightshade had been used. This wasn't particularly surprising to him: nightshade was a common ingredient in poisons and was often used as a base. But it rarely stopped the wound from bleeding to such an extent. This was a deadly poison designed to stop the body from expelling the disease. He frowned and shot to his feet, hurrying over to his shelf of ingredients and searching, pulling out boxes and altogether making more of a mess, but not caring. He had to think.

Canis root was used for paralytic poisons, but it was clear that there were no such effects as the Nord (as he was apt to call her) had been able to make her way to his shop from, most likely, outside the gates. It was possible that wormwood leaves had played a part, but Quintus shook that off after another moment of contemplating. Wormwood was difficult to find in Skyrim. While not impossible, it was improbable. He closed his eyes and wracked his brain for a common ingredient that was used alongside nightshade. 

The wound looked like it was caused from a poison of lingering damage, because it wasn't bleeding and wasn't healing, either. Wounds like that were often the result of some such ongoing poison, which had effects that lasted days or even weeks if not treated immediately. They also often led to death because the body wasn't able to expel the disease. And Quintus knew that the most common ingredient in lingering poisons was either deathbell or nirnroot. Or both. 

He glanced at the woman on his bed, then sighed for what felt like the hundredth time and took out a sample of nightshade, deathbell, and nirnroot. Then he reached into a different box and took a blue mountain flower and a stalk of wheat, both common ingredients in the most basic of health potions. Working on the cure would take some time, time that he might not have, so before Quintus left the room he grabbed a small vial of a restore health potion and had the woman drink it. She was barely conscious but she didn't seem to question the potion. Either she trusted him or she was too far gone to even realize what was happening around her. If nothing else, the potion would buy him a little time while he worked.

He hurried back to the main room where the shop's alchemy table was set up. The ingredients he put on the shelf of the table, and then he lit a few extra candles for better lighting. Then he got to work.


	5. Mountain Flower

Wyn rarely had nice dreams. Her dreamscapes were full of all the deeds she'd committed, and not all of those had been nice. Perhaps it wasn't the dreams themselves, then, that made her feel so relaxed and weightless, but rather the lack of them. She lay in quiet darkness, complete darkness, and it felt rather like death. While that shouldn't have calmed her, it did. She'd been waiting for death for a very long time, waiting for it to catch up with her, waiting for her part in this world to be over. Apparently, though, she had to wait a little longer.

She wasn't dead. She was lying in a single bed in a dusty, cluttered room she'd never seen before. She blinked back sleep and fatigue and slowly observed the room, noting in particular the large shelf of what looked like alchemy ingredients that took up the entire wall. With a small groan, Wyn pulled herself up into a sitting position and noticed some other things, as well.

There was a bowl of water on the bedside table, and a rag inside. Empty pink bottles lay on the floor near the table. A chair was drawn up near the bed, though it was currently empty. She'd been tended to, then.

And poisoned. The reminder, which she had conveniently pushed to the side, came hurtling back at full force. She gritted her teeth and looked down at her stomach. The wound was wrapped up firmly with thick bandages. When she slowly began to undo them, Wyn noticed that someone had stuffed what looked like crushed blue mountain flowers and a fine, grainy white powder into the bandage as a sort of poultice. She'd apparently been in good hands: whoever had done this seemed to know a good deal about alchemical secrets.

She felt ridiculously sore, as though she hadn't been up for days. The sun that trickled through the drafty boards of wood was clear and pure, and Wyn figured that it must be sometime in the afternoon for the sun to get this far into the city. She was very intimate with Windhelm because she herself lived there, though she was also often gone on missions or explorations and didn't stay at her home of Hjerim Hall for very long.

Why wasn't she there? Why had she stumbled to…wherever she was, instead of to her home? Calder would have cared for her, and probably would have sent for an alchemist or the court wizard (that nasty, grumpy old man). She was still pondering this when suddenly there was an exclamation of surprise from the doorway, and Wyn jerked her eyes up to see none other than that alchemist -- the one that owned Windhelm's White Phial, who hadn't known her name, didn't seem to know who exactly she is -- and he was staring right at her.

"You're awake!" he said, as if this was some grand miracle. He took a step forward then paused, glanced behind him, and gave her a sheepish sort of look. "Just wait a moment, there's a customer waiting at the counter who has need of ingredients to make several beauty potions. I'll be right back." Then he grabbed a box of ingredients from the shelf stuffed full with other boxes and disappeared, muttering something about the women of Windhelm and beauty products.

So she'd somehow had the intelligence to come straight to the alchemist rather than stumbling home. She'd must have realized even then that the poison those assassins got her with was too deadly to cure with a simple potion. Wyn swung her legs over the mattress and touched the raw skin of her stomach. She thought the bandages could use a changing, so she unwrapped them the rest of the way and laid them on the bedside table. Then she looked around for her satchel, which was lying on the floor near the bed, and strained toward it with a pained grunt.

A hand beat her to it. The alchemist (she'd forgotten his name) had returned with fresh bandages and a plate of food that, to her, smelled absolutely delicious. She let him grasp her satchel and place it on the bed beside her, then put the plate on the table and took a seat in the chair. Wyn watched, her golden eyes just a tad bit suspicious, though she had a feeling that this man had never had bad intentions in his entire life. He seemed very naïve but it was refreshing.

"I…uh…you must be hungry," he chuckled, probably at his own incompetency to form words. He turned his attention to the plate and nodded at it, "It's not much, but I found some eggs lying around. I hope you don't mind pine thrush omelets? You know, pine thrush eggs are really good at restoring stamina, so you should eat all of it. Oh, and I have another health potion for you to drink when you're done -- "

"Thank you," Wyn cut in, stopping him from his rambling. The alchemist seemed to realize that was what he'd been doing, and his cheeks colored a little bit reddish. Wyn peered at the blush curiously, finding it rather striking on his face, then brushed the feeling off and reached for the plate. She shoveled a forkful of the omelet into her mouth and nearly (nearly, mind you) moaned at the taste of it, which was unlike any she'd ever eaten. Besides being talented in alchemy, this man seemed to have a firm footing in the kitchen as well.

He watched her for a moment, then seemed to realize that he was still holding onto the bandages and said, "Let me get some more of that poultice and then patch you back up." He stood, walked to a different table on the other side of the room, and took a small clay bowl of what must have been the poultice. When he returned to his chair, Wyn had already finished the food and was putting the plate down on the table.

"How long was I out?" she wondered, watching him stir the poultice, remixing some of the ingredients. The alchemist glanced up at her and then looked back down at his work.

"Two days. That was a nasty poison. You're lucky to still be breathing." 

Wyn barely even blinked at the words. She'd heard them so many times in the past that they didn't sway her anymore. She's lucky to be alive, she's lucky her head wasn't cut off at Helgen, she's lucky she's not yet crippled from dragon fire, she's lucky that all the people who want her dead have been thus far unsuccessful. She didn't believe in luck, only skill.

So she only shrugged and glanced at him, unconcerned. In a dry voice, she drawled, "Indeed." Then he reached forward, no doubt intent on applying the poultice, and on instinct she grabbed his hand to stop him. 

"I'll do it myself," she told him, staring at him. He had been unaffected, before, by her bright golden stare. But this time, in this small room, in this intimate setting, the alchemist boy seemed much more susceptible to it. He cleared his throat and withdrew, looking away from her. But he didn't leave.

As she dabbed the poultice on her wound, he attempted conversation, "May I ask how you were wounded?" He was busy watching her apply the ointment, so he didn't see the glance she threw at him. She paused a long moment, deciding if she should grace him with a truthful answer or a fabricated one. In the end, she decided that she'd caused him enough trouble, and went for the former.

"I'm currently being chased by a group of assassins," she said lazily, in a voice that hinted at her total unconcern. The alchemist looked sharply up at her and she met his eyes boldly, flatly, waiting for him to ask -- 

"Why?" he wondered, like he couldn't possibly fathom why a group of assassins, of all things, would be after her. Then again, she reminded herself, this one didn't seem to be aware of her social status or titles. He was eternally out of the loop, as it were. She shrugged, then chuckled as if assassins were so infantile and gullible, and that being chased by them was just a joke. 

"Apparently I stole their kill," she divulged, smirking. The deadly sheen in her eyes made the alchemist lean back a little, unconsciously reacting, like so many before him, to her reptilian gaze. She sighed and reached for the bandages, unrolling them as she said, "I didn't know the Brotherhood was such a predictable group. Really, I'm disappointed." She shook her head and began to wrap the cloth around her stomach. She didn't seem to notice the way the alchemist gaped at her.

"The B-Brotherhood? The Dark Brotherhood?" when she looked up at him with a raised brow, he hurried to ask, "Are you telling me that you've got the Dark Brotherhood after you?!" And even though he knew it was wrong, even as he began to think it, Quintus wondered if he should make her leave his shop. Surely the Brotherhood would know that someone helped her. Would they come after him, too? Did their vengeance extend that far? And who, exactly, had this woman killed in order to get the attention of such a dangerous group?

Wyn watched him quietly, curiously. She wasn't entirely blind to his thoughts. She could see his fear quite clearly, and knew that he was probably regretting assisting her. But then, suddenly, something very interesting happened. His fear turned to determination, and it was a determination that Wyn rarely saw, especially not in alchemists or shop keepers. 

He set his jaw and said in a firm voice, "I'll get you another potion. You need more rest." She stared, even more curious.

After his moment of doubt, Quintus realized that it wouldn't do to fear this woman, and it would be shameful to kick her out when she was so ill. To do so would be to go against all he believed in as an alchemist of Windhelm. So instead he merely nodded and went to stand up. He was certainly not prepared when the woman in his bed lurched for his hand, stopping him.

He stared down at her in surprise and his heart pattered off and left him entirely. She was looking at him with an expression that was entirely new to him. No one had ever looked at him in such a way before, and it threw him utterly of guard. He felt his cheeks turn reddish, and Wyn stared at that intriguing blush once more, fascinated by it. She suddenly had the very strong desire to reach up and touch that blush, to splay her fingers over it and feel the warmth seep into her skin. Perhaps she would have, had the spell not been broken by the jingle of the main door opening.

Quintus immediately jumped, jerked his head toward the sound, and hurried off with an incoherent mumble. Wyn watched him go in amusement, her eyes twinkling. Then she sighed out and fell back onto the bed, staring at the creaky ceiling above her. More rest would of course do her well, but it wasn't necessary at this point. She tended to heal very quickly; an outlet of her innate power. She would most likely be up and walking by the evening, and then she could leave the alchemist in peace and be on her way. She didn't particularly like taking up his bed. (She had guessed it was his because it smelled like him, all pine and juniper and bitterroot, and besides, it wasn't exactly a difficult assumption to make.) 

Quintus, however, wasn't as upset about his bed being stolen. He hadn't gotten much sleep, but it wasn't a terrible thing. He'd tried to rest in the chair, but it had been too hard for his taste, and the little sleep he got came with all sorts of aches and pains. So mainly he'd just stayed awake during the last few nights and spent his time reorganizing the shelf and other parts of the store, which as mentioned before were in dire need of attention. He'd also been busy working (endlessly, tirelessly) on the Phial, and felt that he had almost figured it out, which made him too excited to sleep anyhow.

Still, he was tired, there was no denying that. The world was filled with that blurry static that often came from exhaustion, and as he tended to his single customer (it was still early, before the usual rush hour, which altogether wasn't much of a rush and rarely equated to more than a handful of people), Quintus barely got the order right and ended up charging the poor woman more than he'd meant to. (Though he didn't realize this until much later, when he was pondering the happenings of the day.) When he walked back to the storage room, he was very surprised indeed to see the Nord sitting up, the flush back to her cheeks and her eyes glittering with the manipulative light he had come to associate with her.

"I wanted to try for a walk," Wyn told him. Her voice had that tint of no-nonsense, like she had decided that she would be stubborn about it. Quintus's exhaustion slowly trickled away as he stared at her, watching soundlessly as she swung her legs over the mattress and began to stand up. He normally would have berated her and told her to lie back down, she needs more rest. But she seemed to be doing fairly well, for someone who had just been poisoned. In fact, she was looking remarkable, especially with the shafts of sunlight making her silver hair gleam, haloing around her, and Gods, he thought that old shirt he'd fearlessly put on her was ratty and tattered. But she looked like a Goddess in it, someone untouchable to a mere alchemist. Perhaps it was this thought that dragged him back to the present.

He cleared his throat and put on his best frown, which he had learned from his master. (It was perhaps one of the first things he had learned from him.) 

In a rather stout voice, Quintus said, "Well. If you're well enough to walk around you might as well help me tend the shop. It's been quite exhausting having nowhere to sleep, you know." And Wyn stared in surprise, because no one had spoken to her like that for years, not since she had been just a Nord, ordinary and poor.

But she liked it, she decided. She liked that he had no idea who she was. She liked that he felt comfortable enough to treat her like this. And most of all, she liked the way he'd been watching her just now, which she had not been blind to. Little escaped her notice, after all, especially when it came to an interested man. She rarely cared for interested men, because most of them were only interested in her titles and deeds and money. But this man knew nothing of that, and his interest was purely based on appearance and (dare she think it) personality. 

So it was with a cheeky smirk that she nodded and told him, "Very well, alchemist. I'll help you for today. But I must leave soon. I've wasted enough time healing." 

What a very warrior-like thing to say, was the first thing that Quintus thought. Of course she would think that healing was useless. How simple of her, he decided, but then saw the amused gleam in her eye and realized that she was making fun of him. Of him! And he had fallen right into her little trap. 

He glowered, a little put off, and told her a bit gruffly, "It's Quintus. That's my name." He figured that she might as well know the name of her rescuer and temporary employer, at the very least. He didn't notice the amusement that caught Wyn's eyes, because then Quintus was pushing out of the storage-multipurpose-bedroom and not looking back. He only began breathing again when he was safely behind his counter, inhaling the musky scent of potions and ingredients and polished wood.

He really had no idea what he was getting himself into.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, Quintus, you really don't ;) Hope you all enjoyed the chapter. The next one will have a sprinkling of romance in it <3


	6. Ambrosia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup. This chapter just sort of happened. Like this entire story. It'll take a while for the romance to really build up, but here's a little just to keep everyone happy. Not that anyone would ever go out of their way to read a romance fanfic with Quintus Navale, but I'm writing it anyway so whatever. ;) 
> 
> Next chapter will be up before Friday. Review if you feel inclined!

For the next week, Wyn assisted Quintus with his shop. He put her to work doing all manner of things. On one day, he even sent her up to the roof to repair the edging of the shop, where rain water and snow often got lodged and melted into the wood. It wasn't particularly odd for her to be told what to do. It wasn't even all that strange to be doing a characteristically 'male' job (fixing things, climbing up to slightly dangerous heights with hammers and nails). What was strange was that Wyn was actually enjoying herself, which was of course an unheard of emotion if it wasn't coupled with adventuring or treasure-hunting.

But it was true. The week passed by in a blurred but delightful way that had Wyn almost wishing it would never end. She liked the little alchemist shop. Liked that Quintus seemed to appreciate the work she did for him. There was just one thing she did not like: customers.

She avoided the main room like the plague. If ever she was by the door when it opened, she would scamper off upstairs or into the storage room in search of some random ingredient she apparently needed. Quintus dealt with the customers himself, but he didn't really understand why she refused to do this one simple task. Still, she had been quite helpful otherwise, and he didn't bring it up at all during the first half of the week.

It was towards the end of the week, close to closing, when things began to get rather surreal. They already happened to be surreal, of course, to the both of them. Wyn had never done such simple but oddly rewarding work before, and Quintus was very much enjoying the company and the fact that he wasn't spending his evenings entirely alone. He had also realized, after the first day of their little agreed recompense, that Wyn did in fact know quite a bit about alchemy. Their conversations often revolved around this topic, and eventually got around to the White Phial, for which the shop was named after.

"Would you ever change the name, when you take over the shop?" Wyn asked as she helped him clean out old potion bottles. The ones they already cleaned were lined up in a neat pile for future use. This no doubt meant that they would be transferred to the back storage room and never seen again. At her question, Quintus jerked up and stared at her in surprise and slight mortification. 

Wyn quirked her mouth up because it was amusing, his dumbfounded expression, especially when he frowned and indignantly claimed, "Of course not! The White Phial is my master's legacy! And this is my master's shop." The last bit was added on as a sort of hasty, poorly thought out response, because the both of them knew that it wouldn't be so very long before the shop was entirely his.

Wyn nodded, turning her strange golden eyes down to the pink potion bottle she was polishing. Her golden gaze seemed to reflect right out of the glass, and even though Quintus had gotten quite used to her and her mesmerizing eyes, they still caught him off guard every now and then. (That is, every couple of hours, at the least.) 

She suddenly smiled and said, "What about, 'Quintus's Alchemical Emporium'?" And he thought the name was so outlandish that he burst out into laughter.

She had never seen him laugh before, not like this. But she rather liked the sight of him with his head tipped back and his eyes shining. 

She chuckled along with him, until he finally calmed down enough to say, "I prefer simpler things." It would make sense, of course. He was a simple man, and he liked simple things. Never would he be accused of desiring to be someone less simple and more complicated. He quite liked his life, thank you very much. But as for never wanting to cross the social borders between merchant and warrior, we shall speak of that another time, because Quintus will soon surprise himself very much indeed.

Wyn smiled at him and shrugged, "Very well. I'll think on it and let you know what I come up with." He chuckled and nodded, looking back down at his work. It felt so very strange, sitting across from her like this, in such a normal fashion. The room was dim and comfortable, and everything was still alright in the world. His master was still sick but alive, and he was learning how to run the shop on his own, without the help or expertise of someone else. And he was very happy, sitting in that dim room doing simple chores with a not so simple woman.

She had interesting hands. It was something he had noticed during their very first meeting, in fact, but it had only recently hit home. They were slender but strong, and they moved sort of powerfully, as if every motion was akin to swinging a sword or stringing an arrow. The fingertips looked calloused and rough and the skin was burnt and scarred in some places, but Quintus was still rather impressed. She had warrior's hands. The only battle wounds he had were from the alchemy lab's burner or from chopping up ingredients too quickly. 

There was a burn mark on the palm of her hand that intrigued him more than the rest, though. It was lethal looking, as if she had stuck her hand against a burning hot furnace and it had scorched right through her skin. It did look very much unhealed, and had no traces of restoration magic around it. Wyn noticed where his attention was drawn and raised her eyebrows, turning her palm toward the light and looking down at it too. He immediately blushed his oddly scintillating blush and cleared his throat, embarrassed to be caught staring.

But she only mused softly, "I received this from an old friend of mine. He lives in the mountains." She shrugged, "He gave it to me to think on."

Quintus stared, in confusion and surprise and hesitance, because he didn't understand her words and wasn't entirely sure he wanted to, they sounded so ominous. But his curiosity was easily conjured these days, and so he asked, trying to sound off-handed, "He is a mage, then?" To his surprise, she chuckled, and he was struck with the feeling that he had gotten it very mixed up.

She shook her head, opened her mouth, then paused, like she wasn't sure if she should say something or not. 

After a moment, she smiled and said, "…Yes, he is a mage." Another pause, and then she murmured, "He told me once that I'm like the wind. That I come and go without care for anyone else. I lack passion." Quintus stared at her, taking all of her in, wondering at her words and the sudden depth of their conversation. Wyn did not seem to notice the attention. 

She stared at her palm, at the nasty, jagged scar that had wrinkled and ruined her skin, and said, "So I asked him to teach me about what passion truly is. He told me that I first must learn about heat and fire. He gave me this and told me to come back when I figured it out."

He would have liked to run his fingers over that scar, to see if it was really that wrinkled or if it was smoother than it seemed. 

Instead, he merely asked, "…And did you? Figure it out?" And she looked up at him in surprise, as if she had forgotten he was there at all. She paused, then slowly murmured, "No." Even after all this time, she still had no idea what real passion was, the kind that made a person want to live as fiercely as they can, to never let even a second pass them by. Quintus nodded, turning back to his work. 

They were quiet for a while, then he suddenly said, rather abruptly as if he hadn't really thought out his words, "Sometimes you just have to take a step back and stop thinking so hard." He glanced up at her and jumped a little when he noticed how intently she was staring at him, like she was absorbing all his words and committing them to memory. 

It felt strange, though not unwelcome, to have someone listen to him so hard, and Quintus cleared his throat and muttered, "Uh…well, let's put these bottles in the storage room, shall we?" He stood up with an armful of bottles and she followed him around the counter. They began stacking them on an empty section of the shelf. 

After a few minutes of silence, Wyn stood up and turned to the dim room. She walked forward to light the candle by the bed, because the only light they had was coming from the main room. When she knelt back down beside him with the candle, Quintus could not look away from her illuminated face. Her eyes shone out in golden hues as she read over each label and placed the bottles accordingly.

"How is the old man upstairs? Did he eat much tonight?" she found herself asking. 

Her words and question were completely innocent, but there was something about them that made Quintus still, and he shrugged. "He had a few mouthfuls of stew, then told me to leave him be. Grumpy Elf…" Wyn nodded and they fell once more into a comfortable silence, but still Quintus couldn't shake the tense feeling he had. Like he was waiting for something to happen.

Was it just him? Was it him or was it the light, that played with her features so dramatically? Every other moment, his eyes moved back to her face, her hands, her body. Every other second heat licked at his skin and made him very much aware of her presence. And it was true: he had felt this attraction from the very first moment he'd seen her. But it had grown so much over such a short span of time, and Quintus felt like he was about to burst into flames that would never be put out. 

So did Wyn. For a little while, she played with the idea of acting upon these emotions. She could feel his interest as if it was spelled right across his forehead for her to read. Perhaps it was an extra power that came from her mixed, trapped soul. Perhaps it was only a human thing, this power of attraction and the knowledge of it, the intuition and the hormones. Whichever, Wyn rather liked the fire that it gave her. It felt like the passion she very much wanted to feel. It felt like heat and flame and dust and coal, covering up every inch of her, absorbing into all the cracks and crevices of her armor.

It was a simple turn of events that had her making up her mind. A simple brush of their fingers as they both reached for the same potion bottle. There was no spark of electricity. It was more like a dull gleam of power and anticipation all mingled into one. And Wyn decided that she'd try out Quintus's recipe for passion: to take a step back and not think so hard. Which is how she found herself pushing her mouth to his and closing the distance of their bodies.

It did not take very long for him to respond. His only hesitation was merely a result of surprise. But after the initial shock passed away, he moaned and took her closer, and his arms formed a tight cage around her body as he dragged his mouth over hers. The flames raged over his body and suddenly he wasn't an alchemist anymore, but rather just a man. A man very much in need of a woman.

Even her kiss was powerful. She oozed dominance, right down to the way she brought her hands up around his face. Her thumbs stroked over the smoothness of his cheeks, freshly shaven. Her fingertips tickled beneath his eye and then down, along his jaw and over his neck and finally to his shirt. She undid the cord binding the shirt together, and sunk her hands down over his bare chest as the fabric was pushed away. Quintus panted into the kiss and drew her nearer, his mouth moving deeper against hers. It rather felt as if they were trying to absorb the other into them, as if by kissing, they were succeeding in some great passionate adventure.

But the adventure ended far too quickly, and before they could further explore one another, a loud thump sounded from upstairs, followed by a painful groan. They broke apart with a gasp, mouths parted and eyes wide as if they'd just been caught. They stared at each other for one very stretched out moment. Wyn was thinking (rather badly) that the High Elf upstairs should just die quietly. Quintus was thinking that perhaps he should just pretend that he hadn't heard the noise from upstairs at all. But then the pained groan sounded once more and Quintus really couldn't ignore it. He mumbled something about health potions and scrambled up, barely sparing her a glance as he trudged quickly from the room.

Wyn watched him leave, feeling curious at everything that happened. She was not particularly angry or upset. In fact, she was mainly surprised. At herself, for one, because she had kissed that alchemist so naturally and had wanted it so badly. She was surprised at him, too, because he had been able to pull away so fast, as if kissing her hadn't affected him very much at all. It sort of amused her, the irony of it all, but then she had never kissed a merchant before. Her usual class of lovers were rarely so geeky and often preferred to learn the secrets of correctly severing heads over learning all the hidden uses of a plant.

She slowly stood, swooped back down for the candle, and left the empty potion bottles where they were. Then she walked upstairs, not knowing what she would see or if there was anything going on at all. Her sharp ears could only pick up on the sound of Quintus's hurried muttering and the low groans of the High Elf.

She had frequented the upstairs a few times over the last couple of days, cleaning up and bringing Nurelion his meals. Sometimes the High Elf felt well enough to sit in front of the fire and grumble at her, but he was mainly in bed sleeping whenever she came up. Tonight he was in bed again, but looking much worse off than usual. Quintus was hovering beside him, trying to get him to drink one of the health potions he had left up here, for a moment such as this. 

When Wyn approached, the alchemist glanced up and said, "I need hot water. And bring up several samples of blue dartwing, blue mountain flower, and plenty of wheat." Then he turned back to his master as if the entire kiss hadn't happened and Wyn sighed, but turned to collect the ingredients. She wondered if he would acknowledge their little passionate moment later on, when Nurelion wasn't playing with death.

Wyn hurried back downstairs and got the ingredients first. She had to step outside for the water, to the pump at the center of the marketplace. It didn't take very long, and soon she was pouring the freezing liquid into a pot by the fire to warm. Then she went back upstairs and dumped the armful of ingredients on the bedside table. "The water's heating up," she told him, and Quintus nodded vaguely, clearly not paying her much mind. All of his attention was on his master.

She watched him curiously for a while, interested at the way he healed Nurelion. She wondered if he had healed her in a similar way, hovering above her like that with those intense, wild eyes and those fast and clever fingers. She wondered if he would ever hover over her if she wasn't bleeding herself to death. That thought didn't last for long, because she wouldn't allow herself to think it.

For the next few hours, she helped him where she could. She brought water several times, helped crush the ingredients into a salve, poured more health potions down Nurelion's throat, stoked the fire, and many other things that would seem very menial in the light of day. But tonight they were all very important and she did what she could to be of assistance. The menial tasks gave her a purpose, and Quintus seemed to appreciate them.

Finally, after what felt like ages, Quintus stepped back with a tired sigh. He rolled his shoulders back and said, "He should be alright now. That was a close call. If we hadn't heard him -- " this was where he paused, because he was suddenly reminded of what they had been doing when Nurelion had initially cried out. His cheeks flared with color and he looked away, cleared his throat, and quickly changed the subject. 

"I…ah, I'll clean up this mess tomorrow. You should go to sleep. It's late."

Wyn raised an eyebrow, crossed her arms, and wondered lowly, "Should I take your bed, then?" Amusement flashed through her when Quintus jerked his eyes up to hers, surprised at the loaded quality of the question. If possible, he became more flustered. It was mainly due to the sight she made, decked out in her leathers (she refused to wear normal civilian clothing, even after he'd offered to buy something for her), with her golden eyes gleaming and her expression set in that 'you're highly entertaining right now but I won't smile just yet' way. It definitely caught him off guard, but it also made him realize something else.

She was very much out of his league. They were in two completely different social classes and lived very different lives. She adventured (or something, he still wasn't entirely sure) for fun, while he made potions and studied roots. The kiss they had shared was the first and last, and Quintus would never again let his guard down. It was more than dangerous, mingling with a powerful warrior like her, who had the Brotherhood and who knows who else after her head. 

So he turned back to his master and said, almost too casually, "I'll stay up here with my master, in case something else happens." 

And Wyn, who hadn't been so obviously brushed off in an extremely long time, stared at his back with raised eyebrows. 

After a moment, she said, "Very well." She left him there, with his back to her, and tried not to think at the strange way her heart sort of ached, like she was missing out on something important.


	7. Alkahest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Quintus visits the Thane's house without knowing who actually lives there...because he's just a little bit socially daft. ;)

Quintus Navale saw very little of her after the incident in the storage room. The next morning she left with hardly an adequate goodbye. Just a nod and a short, ‘I’m needed in the Rift,’ then the front door shut and Quintus was wondrously alone. And yet…for some reason, it didn’t feel as good as he thought it would.

It was fairly obvious that she was running away from him, unwilling or perhaps even uncaring to the fact that her kiss had altered him so much. A day ago, his mind would have been constantly whirring with exciting new alchemy experiments. But now all he could think about was her lips, the fire of them, the way they made his body melt and strengthen at the same time.

Quintus Navale had never known what love felt like. As a boy, his childhood love had been a simple Imperial girl, who would often accompany him on his explorations of the Imperial City where he had lived. His apprenticeship in Skyrim had spoiled all other possibilities for marriage and indeed he was no longer interested in those things anyway. His fascination was strictly focused on his alchemical research. He cared little for romance. This was all well and good, really, because he very much doubted that he would ever see the golden eyed Nord again, and he felt all the better for it. Or at least that’s what he told himself.

It was late morning but Quintus decided to close the shop for a few hours and talk a walk to clear his head. He had been very busy during the past week filling orders. He had even gone so far as to deliver a few of them himself to several of the residents of Windhelm. If he really thought about it, he knew why he had made himself so busy. But the absence of his brash Nord companion had been steadfastly ignored as much as possible.

That day, Quintus had three deliveries to make. Normally he would hire a courier or pay off one of the children to make them for him, but his head had been spinning for days. He was getting closer to figuring out what to do with the cracked phial but it was costing him his sleep. That, and Nurelion didn’t exactly make an easy patient. Though he knew he should be resting and catching up on the hours of it that he’d lost, Quintus preferred working himself to the bone. He wasn’t sure when he had become so careless, if he was always like this or not. 

“Quintus, it isn’t often that we see you walking the streets of Windhelm!” Brunwulf Free-Winter said when he saw the alchemist walking through the market. The old Nord was a kind soul. As an Imperial living in a rather racist city, Quintus appreciated that there were some Nords who didn’t harp on outsiders such as himself. Not that he considered himself an outsider. He had lived in Windhelm for years as a full-time resident. 

Brunwulf patted him on the shoulder, his meaty hand nearly pounding the skinnier shopkeeper into the ground. “You’re always cooped up in that shop of yours. It’s good to see you getting some sun.” 

The implication that Quintus needed some sun for his paler complexion was ignored. The Imperial knew that Brunwulf wasn’t making fun of him, though he still didn’t appreciate his words very much.

He laughed haltingly and nodded, “Yes, well, deliveries don’t make themselves. I’m off to Helgird’s with some embalming potions, then the Avenue to see someone named Brynwyn.” 

The Avenue was the common term used by non-Nords to describe the oldest and most prestigious street in Windhelm. The Nords called it by its traditional name of Valunstrad, but as an Imperial Quintus preferred the slightly more pronounceable version. In any case, he sometimes sent deliveries to that part of the city, but never to this particular house. He hadn’t even known that someone lived there until recently, though apparently it had been occupied by its new owner for several months.

Brunwulf’s eyes were wide and rather impressed at Quintus’s words. “You’re going to see the Thane? I heard she possessed many skills, but I didn’t know potion-making was one of them.”

Quintus frowned in confusion and turned fully to Brunwulf, tilting his head curiously. “The Thane? There hasn’t been a Thane in Windhelm since before I moved here. What on earth are you speaking of, Brunwulf?” 

But Quintus’s words only earned him an incredulous chuckle and a shake of the head from Brunwulf, and a shocked gasp from none other than the town gossip, Viola Giordano, who must have overheard him.

She turned right around and immediately began to say, “Quintus Navale, you get yourself out of that shop and into real society. Always holed up with that awful man, doing Gods know what with your poisons and unnatural concoctions. I shouldn’t be surprised that you don’t know Windhelm has got her very own Thane. Complete with all the titles and property too, I might add. Verrry nice house, though there’s talk of it being haunted.” 

The woman finally stopped to take a breath, and Quintus filled the silence with a spluttered, indignant, “Unnatural concoctions? Poisons?! Excuse me, but I don’t think you’re aware of the importance of my trade – “ To say that he was angered by her words was an understatement: he was downright irate.

Why, back in the Imperial City no one would ever undermine him in such a way. The life of an alchemist was about dedication, to the nation and the people, and of course he was angry at the idle, naïve way she managed to insult him. He specifically remembered Viola coming to his ship on numerous occasions as well, though she seemed to have conveniently forgotten said purchases. Viola sniffed as if she didn’t even notice his words or the affronted look on Quintus’s face.

“Thane Brynwyn is an absolute boon to this city, and the rest of Skyrim too no doubt. She is Thane in six of the nine holds, you know, and counting. Of course this is all to be expected of the Dragonborn. Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if she ended up as High Queen by the time this war is all over – “

Quintus’s confusion only spiked at the mention of the Dragonborn. 

He frowned and haltingly said, “Dragonborn? Thane Brynwyn? Are you saying the Dragonborn lives in Windhelm? And I didn’t know?” For a very brief moment, Quintus felt rather silly at this. Was his job so exciting that he missed out on such grandiose news? How could he not have heard of this?

Beside him, Brunwulf chuckled and Viola rolled her eyes. She chose not to respond to his words. 

Instead, she told him matter-of-factly, “Anyway, the Thane isn’t in Windhelm right now. She left last week for some adventure. You’ll be meeting with the Housecarl.” She took one last, pointed look at him and resumed her walk as if the entire conversation hadn’t even happened. Quintus gaped after her at the insult of it all.

Brunwulf laughed again as the old woman disappeared into the crowded streets. 

He patted Quintus’s shoulder and said, “Don’t worry, boy. That woman’s a right piece of work. Not worth getting upset over the nonsense she spouts.” And with that, the old war veteran chuckled once more and walked off before Quintus could mention how he wasn’t a boy, he was very much a grown man and didn’t appreciate the brash wording.

That was why he didn’t much like warriors. They were always so honorably condescending, like they saw themselves as great heroes. Quintus had never gotten along with their type. His slim build and boyish stature was perfectly acceptable for a merchant to possess, but men like Brunwulf looked down on it because it wasn’t ‘manly’ enough. He was so tired of being seen as a simple, clueless alchemist. And yet, he had molded himself that way. He didn’t even know that the Dragonborn lived in the same city. He could have incidentally bumped into her without even knowing. He could have tended to her in his shop, sold her ingredients or potions without even realizing it. The thought baffled him.

“Quintus, you fool,” he muttered, shaking his head at his own blindness. For someone who saw himself as somewhat of a genius, he certainly wasn’t very street smart.

With a sigh of exasperation, the alchemist pulled his satchel higher up on his shoulder and stalked off toward the Gray Quarter to deal with several smaller deliveries. By the time he finished with them, it was noon and he had put off going to the Avenue for long enough. With wariness in his step, he trudged across the castle courtyard and ducked into the peaceful, quiet street where the rich and famous lived. The trim gardens on either side of the road greeted him joyfully and he idly began to sort each plant into its scientific category.

The practice had always been calming for him. It was a gentle reminder that there were familiar things around him. But that reminder fell away as he approached the last house on the left, the home of the new Thane of Eastmarch: Hjerim.

The mansion was huge. He had seen it plenty of times before on other walks or deliveries through the city, but for some reason its size struck him rather boldly that day. He paused on the steps, beneath the grand metalwork that dove above the entranceway, and spent some moments staring. His own little shop would have taken up hardly a quarter of the property. It felt oddly humbling.

When he finally forced himself to cross the distance to knock on the front door, he was met with a fierce looking man who must have been the Housecarl. For a moment, the red haired Nord, bedecked in all his armor as if it was a mere tunic, simply blinked at Quintus. 

Quintus cleared his throat and opened his satchel, pulling out the carefully wrapped package of alchemy ingredients from within. Each ingredient was wrapped twice and it had taken him the better part of two hours to prepare the deliveries. It was a necessary precaution: Windhelm was cold but plants still tended to wilt rather quickly if not handled correctly. 

He handed the package to the towering man and said with surprising calmness, “I’m here to make a delivery. They’re ingredients. Alchemy ingredients,” he added when the man’s eyebrows rose in confusion.

“Is that so? My Thane rarely tampers with the craft,” he mused, tilting his head as he peeked inside the wrappings. Quintus bit his tongue to avoid blurting out the disadvantages of introducing ingredients to the cold air without first drying them. These were fresh, just arrived from the caravans, and very susceptible to the elements. Somehow he managed not to insult the warrior for the blunder, though Quintus was surprised how difficult it was for him to keep quiet. Perhaps he had learned more from his master than he’d thought.

“Do you need payment?” the Housecarl asked good naturally. 

Quintus cleared his throat and shook his head, “No, the payment was already sent to me a week ago.” And it had been quite irregular, as well. The courier who had delivered the money seemed just as confused, considering that the Thane lived within the same city walls. Perhaps her role in the court was so taxing that she couldn’t find the time to go herself. It seemed doubtful.

“Very well,” the warrior nodded, and then abruptly said, “Thanks for the delivery.” Then he went to close the door and Quintus turned back to the street with a sigh. He had a sick master to return to and much work to do besides. And, for that matter, a peculiar golden eyed Nord to forget about. Little did he know that this would turn out to be the complete opposite of what would actually happen.


	8. Blisterwort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sort of an in-between chapter before I introduce the actual plot. Things will actually start happening next chapter!

Wyn lived her life as if it were a dream. She was by no means naïve or ditzy, but she wasn’t always there either. It was as if she didn’t fully understand the intricacies of humanity, the ins and outs of it, the emotions that often accompanied being alive. Perhaps it made sense that she didn’t understand it all. She wasn’t fully human, after all. But it still surprised people. It made them rather nervous, too, it always had.

Her companions were only companions, nothing more. She had no friends. She had no family. She was perfectly fine with that. Being alone was what she was used to and she was good at it. The companions that sometimes joined her for a quest were fine with it, too. She had spent the last week traveling to the Rift and doing several odd jobs for the Jarl. Between those jobs she used her rather peculiar talents for more satisfying work.

“You’re back,” Delvin said when Wyn came sauntering lazily into the Ragged Flagon three days after arriving in Riften. The old man was leaning back, just as lazy and already drinking even though it was only early evening. Such a sight was common to see, but Wyn still raised an eyebrow at him in jest.

“Did you suspect I wouldn’t return?” she drawled, sinking into the chair opposite him and reaching for his mug. Honneybrew mead. She took a whiff of it and then tipped the metal flagon back, taking two generous sips. Delvin merely blinked at her and shrugged, “You’ve been wandering the streets for days. Wasn’t sure if you planned on gracing us mere mortals with your presence.” The quip made him smile, but as always, it felt cold and foreign on her lips.

She was hardly surprised that he’d noticed she was in Riften. The Thieves Guild had eyes all over the city, after all. Wyn merely chuckled and reached into the satchel tied around her Nightingale armor, which she had donned that morning. From it she drew a coin purse near to bursting. She laid it on the table and Delving reached for it. An impressed whistle left his lips at the weight of it.

“Well, I suppose your prolonged absence could be forgiven,” he cheekily told her with a wink. Wyn smirked and leaned back, waiting for him to ask her where she’s been. The question came, predictably enough, only moments later. She was ready for it. She had the last several days to think it over. And besides, she was often absent for long stretches of time anyway. 

“Windhelm,” she said honestly, though she didn’t tell him where, exactly, in Wndhelm she was. The short answer didn’t faze him. Delvin only nodded and grumbled, opening the coin purse. 

He idly began to count the coins as he muttered, “Ulfric wanted to see you?”

This didn’t surprise Wyn either. The Thieves Guild was perhaps the only guild she belonged to in which the members knew everything about her, or at least more than any other. They knew she was Dragonborn. They knew of her other titles. They knew of her part in the war, or there lack of. Truthfully, Wyn had not yet taken a side, though she was often bothered by both the Stormcloaks and the Imperials to do so. She cared not for such things. In her eyes, she was the Dragonborn and nothing more, except perhaps a thief, warrior, and adventurer. A soldier, not so much.

She scowled at Delvin and scoffed, “Of course, but I informed him of my blatant disinterest as usual. His patience with me appears to be running thin these days.” It was true.  
In the beginning, he had lavished her with titles and all but forced her to become his Thane. He had deposited Hjerim on her in an obvious attempt at bribing her to join with him. In return, however, she had done very little. She had never asked to be his Thane or to live in that mansion. But Ulfric seemed to think that she owed him. It was hardly a position she enjoyed being in.

Delvin opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted by Vex and Brynjolf, who entered the Flagon together, speaking of some heist or another that must have been successful, for Brynjolf was smirking confidently. His smirk only widened when he caught sight of her.

“Well look who it is. Our resident hero has come to check in on us,” he brazenly said, lowering himself into a chair at their table. Vex merely nodded at Wyn and went off to talk to Vekel, looking characteristically unimpressed. 

Wyn turned to glance at Brynjolf and raised her eyebrows at him, looking him up and down for a brief moment before drawling, “You’re looking pleased. Steal another lass’s heart while you were sneaking your way through Dragonsreach?” 

Brynjolf chuckled and waved a hand dismissively, “You’re behind the times, lass. That was over a month ago. It was Castle Dour this time.” The roguish grin he sent her way had her smirking in return. They spent some time speaking of Brynjolf’s latest heist and several of the new recruits, but Wyn moved on before nightfall. She was soon returning to Honeyside, waving away Iona when she asked about what Wyn wanted for dinner, and collapsing into her bed. When she couldn’t immediately fall asleep, she sighed and restlessly moved downstairs, to where her alchemy equipment awaited.

She stared long and hard at it for a drawn out moment, as if having some internal battle about whether or not to use it. Eventually she just scowled at herself and stepped forward, snatching several ingredients from her stock and leaning over the table with sharp, annoyed eyes.

She told herself that her annoyance had nothing to do with that damned alchemist who kept interfering with her thoughts. It was no surprise, of course, that she utterly, absolutely failed.

Two months passed in this manner. The precarious hopes Wyn had rather childishly built up had long since fallen away. She threw herself back into her normal schedule, turning back to her journal where she’d jotted down countless quests she was asked to accomplish. She was in Markarth when the courier came, and with him a letter that caught her completely off her guard.

The parchment was not expensive, nor was the ink with her nickname scrawled over the front. The use of her nickname and not her full one whispered suspicion but also hope. It could only be from one person, for there was only one person in the whole of Skyrim who was socially daft enough to not know who she was.

The marketplace of Markarth was loud and filled with raucous laughter and haggling. Normally the sight would please Wyn. She enjoyed watching the merchants, if only in an attempt at understanding how such a boring life could be so passionate. After failing to learn passion through battle, Wyn often used to sit near this market and wonder at other ways to attain such a seemingly inconsistent emotion. She would wonder why others could grasp it so easily while she could not. But as she clutched the letter close, Wyn thought she felt a warmth flood through her, a warmth she had never felt before. She didn’t know if it was passion but it felt startlingly good.

She slipped away from the loud racket and stole up the tall stairway she often took to get to her house. The stone was well worn beneath her boots, taken countless times by the residents before her. Up she flew, until she reached the balcony right in front of her home, which overlooked the market and the gates of Markarth. It was there that she finally stopped, leaned against the stone railing, and broke the seal of the parchment.

She did not recognize the seal, though she guessed it to be Nurelion’s. It was of Elvin make, with sweeping lines that intersected and split like branches around a large trunk. She barely stopped to admire it before she was unrolling the parchment and allowing her serpentine eyes to fly over the words like a drunk searching for more liquor.

It read as such, with no preamble:

During Nurelion’s convalescence, I’ve been studying the legends of the Phial. I don’t know enough of enchanting to make one anew, but with the proper materials, I may be able to repair the original.

Please come see me as soon as you can,

Respectfully,

Quintus Navale, Windhelm

The wording felt cold, almost, and even a little reluctant. Wyn knew why. The brief but mesmerizing kiss they shared made her oddly cold, too, and it was different from the normal coldness that often accompanied the solitary life of an adventurer and Dragonborn. He had obviously gone out on a limb to send her this. Still, try as she might Wyn could not deny him. She was unsure if that was because of the quest itself, the delightful call of it…or of him. 

In any case, the city of Windhelm was once more beckoning her on. She only hoped that this time, Ulfric would not catch wind of her coming.


	9. Lavender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wyn returns to Windhelm. Quintus is awkward again. ;)

The next time Quintus saw her, he was surprised for several reasons. First, because it was afternoon, nowhere near closing, and he had expected her much later. Second, because it had only been a week since he’d sent the letter, which could mean only one thing: she must have immediately dropped everything she was doing to travel here. Third, because she was once again wearing that tight black armor with the long draping cape and it make her look, well, fantastic.

She entered so quietly that Quintus barely heard, or perhaps he was just preoccupied. The bell on the door jingled and he frowned, not ready to tear his eyes away from the book he was scourging through. It was on the White Phial. He was rechecking his information for the third time because he wanted to be absolutely, positively sure he knew what he was doing. 

“Just a moment,” he called, leaning over a table in the storage room. Beside him, brushed beneath several books stacked atop each other, was a lengthy list of chores he had to do. It seemed that he wasn’t nearly as prepared to take over the shop as he’d thought. After the Nord left two months ago, everything began to pile up and, with caring for Nurelion and researching the Phial, he had fallen dreadfully behind on the upkeep.

It showed. The shelves were once again a mess, for he didn’t have time to rearrange the boxes of ingredients. Empty potion bottles hung around on the floor by the wall. On other shelves near his personal alchemy station, countless potions were curing, going through the sitting process that most had to go through before proper use. He knew that many of them were already finished but he hadn’t the time to test them. He hardly had time to eat, for goodness sake.

He scribbled a few words onto a spare bit of parchment he had lying around, then sighed and pulled away from the delicate research. When he stepped into the main room, he stopped short and stared, surprise coating his features. It was her. The Nord. Wyn. And that armor…

“Oh…um…good morning,” he stuttered. His cheeks colored and Wyn drew her eyes over them. She had forgotten how scintillating his blushes were, how lovely and boyish they made him. Still, she would not show him how much she liked the sight he made (haggard, exhausted, but bright-eyed all the same), because she still had very clear memories of the awkward last meeting.

“Good morning to you,” she responded lazily, crossing her arms over the counter as she stared at him. He lifted his eyes to hers and for a brief moment, it was a clash of blue and gold. But then, to her own surprise, he lowered his gaze away. It was not the first time he’d done it, but she remembered when he had stared back fearlessly, a feat that many a Nord warrior could not accomplish. Her eyes were draconian and sly, and often instilled fear into any who caught them. Quintus was the first who seemed unafraid to stare back, but now he quickly turned away.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he said, not looking at her. Instead, he bent down to the shelves beneath the counter and pulled out a thick book. The cover was intricately drawn with patterns she had not seen in Skyrim. Rather than the sharp, pointed, Nordic knots, these were much more subdued and even beautiful. They spiraled and shifted over the emerald cover like waves, and in the middle of the pattern was the title: An Alchemist’s Complete Field Guide Spanning the Nine Provinces of Tamriel. No wonder it was so large.

It looked Imperial, and sounded Imperial, now that Wyn thought of it. Only the Imperials would stretch the title out so much. If the book was written by a Nord, it would be called something like ‘Guide to Alchemy’, or ‘Ingredients of Tamriel’, or some such thing. The thought of Imperials let her to a great many other thoughts, too, all revolving around Quintus.

Of course she knew he was an Imperial. From the very first moment she saw him she knew. Imperials were impossible to miss. Sometimes Wyn wondered if they were even haughtier than the Altmer. Down in the Imperial City they liked to walk around with their noses in the air, and if you weren’t one of them they’d look down at you for it. Wyn had been to the capitol of Cyrodiil. It was a very long time ago, but she wasn’t ignorant to the other races of Tamriel. Of course she’d known about Quintus’s heritage, but that hadn’t stopped her from respecting him. The Nords of Windhelm were racist and thoughtless, but she liked to think that all other Nords did not discriminate so much.

Quintus opened the book to one of several bookmarked pages. In fact, the book was riddled with bookmarks, and little scraps of fabric or parchment spilled from the sides like tiny waterfalls. She was curious as to what other pages were marked, what other things caught his fascination – but then he was turning the book toward her and she shook such thoughts away.

“I’ve had some thoughts. To repair the Phial I need three crucial elements. Some will be easier to find.” He leaned down over the opened book and pointed at the hand drawn image of the first element. It was a bowl of something white and dusty. There were rings of what seemed like smoke hanging around the edges of it. Quintus glanced up and said, “This is Unmelting Snow. It’s found at the Throat of the World.”

The words caused a fascinating reaction to stir within Wyn. Quintus noticed but didn’t comment, partly because he wasn’t sure he wanted to know, and partly because he had no idea what to say to her. Every time he so much as looked at her, the kiss they’d shared burned right through those thoughts and sent his heart racing. Still, he wondered at the way her golden eyes widened, at the way her fingers clenched against the smooth polish of his counter. He wondered but did not ask, for Quintus had a feeling he would not get an answer even if he tried.

He moved to the next, flipping the book open to the next bookmark several chapters over. The image that greeted them this time was a pile of some chalky looking substance, which Quintus told her was, “Powdered Mammoth Tusk. The giants are the only ones who know how to grind it so finely. It’s quite amazing though: good at restoring stamina and even fortifying sneak!” He paused just a moment, realizing that he sounded even geekier than usual, and cleared his throat. “I, uh, well, as an alchemist I find it very…amazing.”

He didn’t see the amused look Wyn sent him because after that he threw himself into the next element, flew the pages of the book over, and bent down farther. He almost looked as if he were trying to sink right into the floor. “The final part requires a little more…brute force,” he said, turning the book toward her. She peered down at what was, in fact, a fairly familiar image. 

“A Briar Heart?” she asked with raised eyebrows, and Quintus found himself surprised that she could identify it so easily. Not every warrior could, which could only mean that she had seen one up close before. Which, in turn, could only mean that she had battled the Forsworn in the past.

“You…I’m surprised you recognized it so quickly,” he admitted, and watched her eyes flash with that almost-amusement that intrigued him so. He wanted to watch those eyes of hers all day, and he began to blush at the mere thought. He appreciated how she pretended not to notice, if only for his own pride.

“I’ve had dealings with the Forsworn many times over,” she told him breezily, as if dealing with such barbarians wasn’t such a big deal, as if she could do it in her sleep. He found himself caught between admiration and laughter, a strange combination to be sure. But for some reason, Quintus thought it was hilarious. This strange golden-eyed female Nord could take on the Dark Brotherhood and live. Of course she could take on a few savages in the West.

He cracked a smile that Wyn immediately found to be strikingly handsome, in a boyish, almost naïve way. The twist of his lips made his eyes light up like flawless sapphires on a warm, moonlit evening. And suddenly the tousled, exhausted look that had previously filled in the contours of his face vanished entirely, replaced only by the sheer brightness and youthfulness that had first caught her attention all those months ago. 

He didn’t appear to notice the way she stared at him. He chuckled very quietly and murmured, “Anyway, there are two other things I need. I could order them through the Khajiit Caravans but it’ll take weeks for the order to be filled. I’m afraid I’ll have to go and find them myself, out in the field.” 

Ah, field work. As a younger lad, Quintus hadn’t minded it so much. But he had grown used to the comfort of being inside a city’s safe walls. And besides, he’d lost much of the adventurous spark he used to have. Nevertheless, though he’d much rather pawn the job off to someone else, he didn’t trust anyone to successfully harvest the rare ingredients. It was so easy to harvest them the wrong way, and then they needed to be properly iced and stored. Hired help wouldn’t understand and they could just as easily ruin everything.

Wyn raised her eyebrows in surprise, “What are the ingredients? I can get them for you while I’m searching for the others.” He appreciated the offer, he really did, but the matter was too delicate to take any chances.

“Wisp Wrappings and Salmon Roe. I must get them myself, as it’s very delicate work. I’ll hire some mercenaries to escort me,” he waved his hand as if there was no cause for worry, but the mention of mercenaries had Wyn stiffening. She knew their type, always pulled toward the promise of more gold. Their loyalty could be just as easily sacrificed if one wasn’t careful. They were not honorable, and she did not want them around Quintus. She couldn’t be sure from where this protectiveness came, but Wyn knew she wouldn’t allow him to hire any of those ne’er-do-wells.

Her eyes hardened and Quintus found himself once again surprised at the sight of her, towering over his counter with that warrior face. He was even more surprised when she callously said, “You’ll do no such thing. If you insist on finding those ingredients yourself, I will accompany you. It will save you the ridiculous sum of money mercenaries require and you will be far better protected in the wilds.” 

He wasn’t entirely sure how he’d be better protected with just her to look out for him instead of a group of sellswords, but Quintus didn’t dare argue. There was something in her eyes, an enchanting look that made warning bells go off in his head…and yet even though something told him the expression she was giving him was off, he didn’t dare look away. His eyes were glued to hers, his head immobile. And slowly his thoughts began to melt away, replaced only by a soft droning chant that pulled him quickly down into nothingness.

That was when Wyn realized what she was doing and broke the hold she had on him. Her eyes snapped away from his and Quintus dropped against the counter with a sharp gasp, as if he was resurfacing from some indescribable spell. He was, in a way, and he almost seemed to know it but for the confusion that settled in his eyes. 

He looked up at her cautiously, frowning, and asked breathlessly, “W-What was that? What happened?”

She did not meet his gaze. Instead she busied herself with looking over the alchemy book that still lay between them. 

In an off-hand, idle voice, as if she had no idea what he was talking about, Wyn said, “You must be tired. Go and get some rest. We leave tomorrow at dawn.” And before Quintus could insist that it was her who had done something to him, Wyn was twisting from the shop with a flurry of her dark cloak, leaving him to stare blindly at the closed door, wondering if perhaps he was going insane.


	10. Buckwheat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm back guys! If there's even anyone still around that is hehe. Please review if you want, I always appreciate feedback!!

Chapter Ten |

At dawn the next day, Wyn returned to The White Phial carrying several heavy looking packs. Quintus had only just woken up, reluctantly rolled from his bed, and was hovering over the fireplace making sausages when she entered. The racket she made was strangely typical for a Nord, which of course surprised Quintus because before that moment, he had rather forget that she was one, so different she was from her brethren.

“I’m up here!” he called down to her, feeling foolish even as he did. It wasn’t liked there were many other places he could be, after all. But there was no laughter or amusement in Wyn’s eyes as she took the stairs. The time for such frivolous emotions seemed to be over, for there was a hard sheen to her eyes when she looked at him.

“We don’t have time for breakfast, alchemist. We must leave before the city wakes.” She stepped forward and looked him over. The way she did made him feel self-conscious, as if he was lacking in some way. He obviously was, because the golden eyed Nord sighed and looked away. 

She hadn’t the heart to tell him to stay home. The wilds were no place for a shop keeper. But she knew enough of alchemy to understand the point he made. Harvesting ingredients took some degree of know-how, and even then if done wrongly, the plant could lose a property or part of its essence. There were tricks, tricks she did not know because she did not take time to study them. But Quintus had.

“…What’s wrong?” he blundered, looking down at his simple clothes just as critically as she did. He knew they were nothing special. He’d had them for years and they didn’t quite fit right, for they had been Nurelion’s for years before they were his.   
He looked back at the Nord and frowned, “I have a heavy cloak I will wear over this, if that is your concern.” And with a little huff that made him feel a tad bit childish, Quintus turned back to his sausages and flipped them over.

Wyn narrowed her eyes at him but didn’t say anything more on the subject. It was a good thing she had the foresight to bring that spare set of leather armor. It was light enough for the merchant’s slim form but strong enough to offer some protection if, and when, he needed it.

But Quintus did not think he needed anything more than his cloak. It wasn’t because he was stupid. He had done field studies many times in the past, countless times around the Imperial City and several in Skyrim too. He’d grown used to the cold nature of this nation. But what he didn’t take into account was the simple fact that the Skyrim of today was different from the Skyrim of yesterday. He would soon be forced to come to terms with this, and a great many other things as well, before the quest was over.

As for leaving before the city wakes, Quintus didn’t bother asking why. He guessed it had to do with making as much time today as they could. The sun set early in the East, and they would need all the time afforded to them. But Wyn had another reason for leaving so early, and it had a little something to do with her titles and badges, and the fact that Quintus was still blind to them.

She was loathe to take his blindness from him, even as she knew it was rather cruel to let him go on like this. He deserved to know who she was and what dangers he was getting himself into by going into the wilds with her. But something stopped her from saying anything. She did not like to admit that she was lonely, but whenever she was with Quintus those feelings felt far away. Odd, that a simple shop keeper could have such an effect on her.

“Cook your sausages and meet me downstairs. Do you mind if I take some health potions from your stores? I shall repay you when this is over.” She had already started to walk down to the main room of the shop. Quintus sighed but told her she could, and Wyn walked to the storage room where Quintus slept to fill her bag with the potions. She also took several stamina potions as well.

Ten minutes later, Quintus had joined her downstairs with a plate of the sausages. She tossed the thick fur cloak to him and he caught it with surprise, having not expected the movement. As he shrugged it over his shoulders and tied it beneath his chin, Wyn wondered, “And the Old Man? How will he fare while we are gone?” The question gave him pause, for there was something that sounded almost like worry in her voice. That she was concerned for his master surprised Quintus. She had not seemed capable of being concerned for another, as cold as it sounded.

He cleared his throat and told her, “I’ve hired someone I trust to look after him. He’ll be in good hands.” Wyn nodded. The explanation was good enough for her. She busied herself with tying off something in the pack on the ground. As she crouched in front of it, Quintus lowered the plate of sausages to her and asked with an almost cheeky smile, “You’re welcome to share breakfast with me, you know. We’ll be doing so for the next few weeks, might as well get used to eating together.” And she stared up at him in surprise, because something about his words made her feel very warm.

She was not used to eating with someone. The meals she had in her various houses throughout Skyrim were spent alone while her Housecarl busied around doing some other thing. The meals spent at taverns hardly counted. The meals with other companions in the snow drifts of the wilds were cold and unaccommodating, only eaten for sustenance against the harsh, freezing nights. She wondered if it would be the same with him. If those meals would still be unaccommodating and necessary or if this warm feeling would carry itself through the rest of the quest.

“…Very well,” she said with a tiny tilted smile, and took a sausage from the plate. As she bit into it, Wyn had to battle back a moan because it tasted very different from other sausages she’d had in the past. 

Quintus noticed the look on her face and chuckled, taking a sausage for himself as he explained, “They’re from Cyrodiil. It’s expensive to import them all the way to Skyrim, but after trying the sausages here – uh, no offense – it is but a small price. I am grateful for the reminders they give me of my home.” 

She thoughtfully glanced up at him, wondering what the other parts of Cyrodiil looked like. The time to ask questions, however, was past. The city was beginning to awake and Wyn wanted to be outside of it before people noticed her. 

She ate the last bite of her sausage and nodded to the plate in Quintus’s hand, “Wrap those up. We’re leaving now.” Then she stood, slung her heavy pack over her shoulder, and nudged his with her foot. He sighed but obeyed, and didn’t even complain when he slide his own pack on. 

The sausages were wrapped in a cloth napkin to be eaten while they walked. Water skins hung around their waists, beside weapons (several for Wyn, and one steel sword for Quintus). It was in this way that the pair of them quietly stole out onto the streets of Windhelm, locked up the White Phial, and turned to the city gates. Only the guards saw them disappear through it.

Down at the Windhelm stables, the Elf Ulundil was just waking up, stepping out into the frigid air and throwing his arms over his head with an indulgent sigh. When he saw the odd pair walking towards him, he raised his eyebrows and locked eyes with Brynwyn, and then with Quintus. He knew the Thane and Dragonborn when he saw her. He also knew the head strong Imperial alchemist who studied under Nurelion.

“Ah, Drago – “

“Ulundil, have you an extra horse I might purchase for my companion here?” Wyn caught the Elf’s eye and gave him a meaningful look, which he wasn’t quite sure what to do with. Even so, Ulundil smiled and said only a little hesitantly, “Oh, ahaha. Unfortunately not. I sold the other a week ago to a traveling noble whose horse took an arrow in the knee. Poor beast.” He would have gone on to explain how they had to put the horse down but Wyn hadn’t the time for stories. She sighed and glanced at Quintus with a surly glower.

It was strange seeing that glower. Quintus hadn’t seen very much emotion in her. In fact, besides amusement and the occasional joke, he hardly thought the Nord had any emotions. He recalled what she had told him that one evening – the evening of the kiss – about how her master had tasked her with deciphering passion and how she had thus far failed. He wondered why. Why it was so difficult to know what passion felt like. He had felt it many times when he worked on his beloved alchemy, when he learned new things or got praised for doing something right by his master. It was not so hard to understand.

Wyn pushed past them and glided down the stairs purposefully. Ulundil followed, and Quintus trailed behind them. After a moment of thinking, Wyn sighed once more and murmured, “Very well. Saddle my horse, would you Ulundil?” The Elf nodded and turned to the tack room, and Wyn looked at Quintus. 

“We shall have to share my horse until we arrive in Whiterun.” Quintus grimly nodded, knowing this was coming. He was grim for one reason and one alone: being so close to Wyn would quite possibly be the death of him. Little did he know that she was thinking the exact same thing about him.

They milled around while Ulundil tacked up Wyn’s horse. When the saddle was adjusted, Ulundil gave them a hearty farewell and disappeared to do his morning chores. Wyn and Quintus were left alone to fix the saddlebags and to tie their bedrolls to the horse. After that was completed, Wyn hoisted herself into the saddle and reached down to give Quintus a hand. He hesitated only a moment before accepting it.

Her fingers were cold, was the first thought he had, and rough. Of course this did not surprise him, for he had seen her hands before and knew them to be of warrior make, honed through many years of fighting. But he was still fascinated by them. Perhaps his fascination had stemmed from what he had always known women’s hands to be like: soft, gentle, slender, with flawless skin and calloused only from the tips of embroidery needles. Wyn’s hands were rough, purposeful, and flawed. And yet for some reason, Quintus thought they were infinitely more interesting, more beautiful and lively.

He had always liked the idea of the Imperial woman. Dutiful and obedient, such a wife was expected and even respected in the home. If she wasn’t good at cooking, sewing, and the other female arts, then she wasn’t considered fit for society. He found little fault with those ideals, for they were normal to him as he had grown up in the Imperial City.   
Since arriving in Skyrim, he had selfishly held onto those values because they were what he knew, and he didn’t understand why Nord women who could fight were so sought after. Warrior maidens held very little interest to Quintus Navale, but for some reason this particular one seemed to defy everything he knew about himself.

Once he was on the horse, Quintus awkwardly clutched at the back of the saddle. Wyn clucked the horse forward slowly, then suddenly chuckled. He sharply looked up as she glanced over her shoulder at him, for he felt as if she was laughing at him. Indeed she was, and a moment later she was reaching behind to grasp his wrists. As she pulled his hands around her waist, Quintus spluttered momentarily with the indignation of it all. (Why, in Cyrodiil he would never allow himself to touch a woman like that in public - )

“Would you prefer falling into a snowdrift to holding my waist, alchemist?” the question was full of cheek. Quintus gaped at the back of her head and swallowed awkwardly. Well, he certainly did not like the idea of falling into a pile of snow, and Wyn of course knew it. She chuckled again and caught his eye briefly as she looked back at him. For a moment he was mesmerized by the golden hue of them surrounded by all this white. (The white of her skin, the white of her war paint, the white of her hair, and the landscape around them, spread out with snow that seemed to never end.) 

Wyn gently kicked the horse into a trot and Quintus found himself holding her tighter, for the momentum was enough to draw him closer for fear of falling off the rear. Wyn’s amused voice called back to him, “We shall arrive in Whiterun by tonight, and on the morrow we leave for the Reach.”

And Quintus just nodded, though she couldn’t see, and clutched her harder as he shivered. It would be a cold trip to Whiterun, and he was already wondering if perhaps hiring mercenaries would have been a better idea after all. The Nord in front of him would be more than just the death of his values, he was sure. Surprisingly, the thought didn’t frighten him as much as it probably should have.


	11. Butterfly Wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Quintus finally gets his own horse and the duo head off to Rorikstead. Yay

True to her word, they arrived in Whiterun before dinner, stabled the horse, and lugged their belongings into the city. Whiterun was vastly different from Windhelm, and while it wasn't Quintus's first time there, he stared in awe all the same as they made their way through the streets. Wyn led him to a smallish house near the market. She had a key for it, which surprised Quintus, and he wondered, "Whose house is this?" even though he already knew.

She glanced at him as she opened the door. "It is mine," she said in her lazy voice. It was the same voice she had used when she told him the Brotherhood was after her. The same voice when she had brought the cracked Phial back. Somehow, it did not surprise Quintus that she owned a house in Whiterun. What did surprise him was the warrior woman who approached them with the words, "Welcome home, my Thane. I was not expecting your return." Thane. Quintus should have known.

Wyn just shrugged as if being Thane was no great feat, and indeed to her it wasn't. She would not tell Quintus that she was currently Thane of six holds, one of which was his own city. She would not tell him she fought dragons as a pastime and just so happened to devour their souls afterwards. She wouldn't tell him of the oddity he was, to have earned a place by her side even though he could hardly lift his sword or notch an arrow. She hardly knew why she had insisted he accompany her, though she did have a very quiet inkling that she would not acknowledge any time soon.

"Ha! You're a Thane," Quintus muttered, shaking his head in amusement and bewilderment. He drifted to the fire and crouched before it, ignorant to the stares he was receiving from both Wyn and the other Nord whose name he had yet to learn. His disbelief only further hardened her decision to keep all her other titles hidden away. If he knew she was in fact the Dragonborn, she doubted he would stay with her for even another moment. For once in her life, Wyn found herself tiptoeing around rather than brashly spewing the truth as she was often apt to do. It certainly had Lydia looking conflicted, hovering nearby her Thane and eyeing Quintus unabashedly, as if trying to unravel the mystery of his presence without having to ask outright.

Wyn decided to put her out of her misery. She stepped forward, untying her Nightingale cloak as she said, "Lydia, this is Quintus Navale of Windhelm. Quintus, Lydia my Housecarl and sworn protector." The last bit was almost mocking, in a cheeky way Quintus had grown rather accustomed to, and Wyn sent him an amused glance as her Housecarl frowned.  
They exchanged wary nods. Wyn threw her boots off and added it to the pile of discarded armor near the door. 

She distractedly told Lydia, "We're on a quest to repair the White Phial. Oh…" she paused, and Lydia and Quintus both turned to her. After a moment, Wyn tossed Lydia several heavy septims and said, "Would you mind sleeping at the Bannered Mare tonight, Lydia? It seems I've not thought about proper bedding."

There was something almost eccentric about Wyn that had Quintus curiously watching as she swept through the room, plucking spare pillows and blankets out of a cupboard and tossing them to the floor by the stairs. 

"Not to worry," came her muffled voice as she disappeared into a smaller room pushed off to the side, "at least in the morning we can get you your own horse, alchemist."

When she returned with a platter of ingredients for a stew, Quintus raised his eyebrows. The thought of this Nord actually cooking made him want to laugh. He managed to halt the instinct but not without the risk of a small chuckle slipping into existence. The sound had Wyn glancing over at him and wondering, "What is it?" She said nothing of the fact that this was the first time in months that she'd seen the effects of his laughter, the way it made his face brilliant and youthful.

Quintus cleared his throat but couldn't clear the smile from his face. "You, cooking?" He was unsure if he had crossed a line with the slight insult, because Lydia stiffened just a bit and Wyn glanced at the Housecarl. He was about to retract his words as tactfully as a city alchemist could when Wyn gave him a smirk and winked. His cheeks flushed with relief and something else, something that came entirely from that wink.

"Indeed I am not so skilled in the culinary arts as you, alchemist, though I do find that most Nords can, at the very least, make a half-decent stew." They exchanged smiles and Quintus felt himself puff at the compliment she gave him. That was when Lydia stepped forward and cleared her throat, catching their attention as she said, "I will take my leave, then. Goodnight, my Thane." Wyn muttered the words back and Lydia left. The two began to chop up the ingredients for the stew in silence.

That silence continued on into the night, but it was not uncomfortable even as the two retired to their beds. And as Wyn collapsed beneath the furs in her room upstairs, she decided that she quite liked having someone to eat dinner with, to have in her home. The thought made her warm, in a way she could not recognize, for she was unsure if she had ever felt such heat before. Unsurprisingly, it took a while for her to fall asleep, because she was very much aware that Quintus was nearby, breathing peacefully and quietly two rooms over.

The next morning did not dawn bright and early. No, instead Wyn awoke to the thundering of raindrops slamming against the rooftop. A soft drip was also apparent, and she rolled over to see a little puddle forming on the floor by the wall. With a grumble she threw her blankets away and sat up, but she moved too quickly, and the dull headache blazing through her head tripled.

"By the Gods," she moaned, rubbing her temples briefly as she blinked back sleep. The darkness of the sky did not give her much insight into the time, but she knew she'd overslept. She always did when she awoke with a headache.

There was nothing for it. Her sharp ears caught the sounds of someone moving downstairs. By the rustle of clothing, she guessed it to be Quintus. She also smelled cooking meat, an aroma that ultimately pulled her out of bed and down the stairs blindly. Had she given more thought to herself, she might've cleaned herself up before stepping downstairs. But she cared not for outwardly appearances, even if her snowy hair was ruffled and uncombed, even if her tunic was skewed and wrinkled.

Quintus himself looked pristine and flawless. He'd changed into his clean pair of clothes and had washed his face and hair, for the latter was a little wet. He'd done a number on the house, too, in her absence. The fire was stoked and the cooking pot filled with breakfast. The table was cleaned and dusted. The bookshelf as well, and the floors seemed to have been swept. Wyn stared in surprise at the suddenly clean state of the room, and Quintus turned and saw her, and his cheeks immediately heated up with a blush.

"Oh, um, good morning. I made eggs and sausage. And I, well, I cleaned up a bit too," he hurried to explain, his nerves fueling his words. After the initial embarrassment passed, Quintus got a good look at her. His throat ran dry at the sight she made, and it was apparent that she'd just tumbled out of bed. He rather liked the look of her when she was sleepy and confused. And that was when he noticed how she kept rubbing her temple.

"Do you have a headache?" he asked. She nodded dully and went over to sit by the fire.

"And it appears I overslept as well. Damned rain," she muttered, but Quintus was not listening. He'd already stepped to the alchemy nook on the far side of the room (he'd been absolutely delighted to discover it) to gather several herbs. Wyn watched curiously as he ground something up, his movement peppered with a slight mumbling as he recalled the recipe he was following. When he returned several minutes later, it was with a little bowl of what looked to be a salve.

"This should help," he said, his voice reverting back to his alchemist-no-nonsense tone. "Just rub it to your temples and – " he paused, for it seemed that she was hardly paying attention. Instead she just stared into the fire with a contemplating look, and Quintus sighed and shifted closer, scooping a bit of the salve onto his fingertips and deciding to just do it himself. Perhaps he should have thought through the action a little more.

Wyn started at the gentle touch, and looked up to see Quintus only a foot away, staring intently at the side of her head as he rubbed tiny circles to her temples. It was strangely intimate, in a way, and he suddenly wished he hadn't initiated so bold an action. But it was too late to retract his fingers, for Wyn had quickly accepted the touch and was sinking into relaxation as her headache slowly drifted away.

"It's working," she murmured thickly, feeling progressively relaxed and lazy.

Quintus swallowed and continued, trying to brush away the surprising intimacy with a scoffing, "Of course it is, I made it."

Wyn smiled at the words, and Quintus stared. That curve of her lips had his heart stuttering wildly, and he decided he had to remove himself from this sudden situation else he fall prey to his confusing desires. His method of choice was a question, and a welcome one at that, for he had wondered at this particular one for many weeks now.

"Your hair…how did it come to be so pale? You're younger than me, yet the color is all but vanished…" It had been bothering him for quite a while now, though he hadn't asked because he thought it might offend her. But Wyn merely hummed and closed her eyes, shutting away her golden gaze.

His words were true. Wyn was indeed younger than him, as far as she could tell without outright asking his age. Yet every part of her was pale save for the bold color of her eyes. It was an odd combination, one that Quintus had never seen on a Nord or anyone else, for that matter.

"I have always had this coloring. My mother told me once that I was cursed and would never find a husband. In response my father denounced her and said I was a rare beauty, and could have my choice pick of any man," she chuckled, and Quintus found himself blushing, for he thought her words to be true. "But I have always wondered if my mother was right. She was a bitter woman, but the only one I had as a child looking for guidance."

The conversation had taken a turn that Quintus had not anticipated, but for some reason he was glad of it. Words that he wanted to utter blossomed upon his tongue, yet he tried to hold them back, for he knew they would embarrass him. Alas he was not successful, and blurted them out before he could properly rein them back under his control.

"You're lovely," he said, then flushed brightly as she stilled and slowly opened her eyes. There was something in that golden gaze that gave him pause as well, and his fingers slowly stopped moving as they looked at each other. The small distance between them lurched to the forefront of his mind, but he could not move away. It was as if her eyes were pinning him down. The feeling was not unique; he had felt it before, many times. The pull of her gaze often appeared inhuman and frightening. But at that moment, to Quintus she resonated with inhuman beauty, and not terror.

He was quite aware of the fact that she hadn't yet pulled away, as he had expected of her. Instead she lingered, staring up at him with those haunting eyes that made the blood boil against his eardrums. And because she did not move, neither did he, and the moment unfurled itself into a strange but wonderful cacophony of emotions that both frightened and consumed him.

After several more seconds of this, Quintus cleared his throat and slowly drew his hands away.

He mused quietly, "I've never heard you speak of your parents." The words were meant to break that silence that had settled between them, and for the most part it worked. Wyn drew herself back and the spell was shattered. She stood, and Quintus nearly cried out at the agony of her passing, for she appeared to be closing herself away once more as he knew she was apt to do.

She went to fetch two plates and forks, and as she did so she responded with a brief, "I do not think of them often. They died long ago, and now reside in the halls of my forefathers." She said no more on the subject, and Quintus had a feeling that the time for questions and idle chit chat had passed.

They ate breakfast quietly, speaking only of their journey. To Quintus's dismay, Wyn planned for them to leave within the hour for Rorikstead, a small farming community just west of Whiterun. He would have much preferred waiting another day rather than venturing out into the harsh and unforgiving weather. The rain was still pounding just as heavily as it had all morning, and did not appear to be letting up even a little bit. To him, it was both foolhardy and stubborn to continue their journey so recklessly, but he had little say in the matter. And a little rain wouldn't hurt them, at least according to Wyn.

After breakfast they rose to fetch their packs and to restock some new supplies. Wyn filled an extra saddlebag with food, for it would be a long ride through the Reach, and then bounded up the stairs to search for her cloak. She returned with it draped over her head, the resilient fabric long and protective. It would suit her well in the elements, though she was not so sure about the state of her companion.

She looked at him for a long moment, then disappeared once more. When she came back, it was with a hood that she immediately dumped rather unceremoniously onto his head. He spluttered and gaped at her, wondering, "What is this?" To which she responded only with a raised eyebrow and a dry expression.

The hood was made of a similar fabric to her cloak, and would at the very least offer him some protection from the rain. It would keep his head warm, and his body temperature would stay balanced. He sighed and fastened it around his neck, tying off the leather ties in the front. Then he looked up to see Wyn looking him over once more, and his cheeks blushed from the attention he was receiving.

But it was in a matter-of-fact way that her eyes spun over his body, and that only made him more flustered because he found himself disappointed. He wanted her to look at him with more emotion, like she had when he had rubbed the salve into her skin minutes prior. And of course the suddenness of this desire made him very surprised at himself, for he rarely thought himself to be so blind in these kinds of matters. Something in Wyn made him feel irrational though, and he could not easily negotiate this change in demeanor.

"Let's head out. It is my hope that there will be a horse available for you to ride," Wyn said, grabbing her pack and walking to the door. She had left a little note for Lydia when the Housecarl returned, to tell the woman of where they were headed and when they would return. With all these little matters attended to, the two of them walked out into the heavy rain and made their way to the stables. With every step, Quintus found himself dreading their journey more and more. For it was not the rain that worried him, but the thought of riding a horse.

He was an adequate rider, but he much preferred to have his feet on solid ground. As an Imperial, he'd had some horse training as a boy, but he had grown up in the Imperial City and that had given him something of a disadvantage in those regards. He hadn't ridden in quite a while, and knew it would take some getting used to. That, and the rain, was quickly souring his mood.

But he did not complain when Wyn paid for the spare horse. They spent some time distributing the saddlebags between the two horses, and then Wyn was pulling herself onto her mount, and the white steed nickered softly and shifted, eager to begin the journey. Quintus's horse was not so eager, it seemed.

"She is a gentle mare," the stable master told him as he patted the horse's neck. The old Nord had given Quintus a reassuring nod, as if he was well aware that Quintus was not used to riding, and had told him, "She responds well to humming, if you've the voice for it. It will calm her." Quintus was glad that the Nord hadn't outright mentioned his obvious nerves. He'd nodded his thanks and gently kicked the mare forward to follow Wyn, who was waiting a ways away.

When he moved to her side, Wyn looked him over once more and nodded her approval. He looked good on the horse, and the mount seemed to be a good choice for him. Wyn had rightfully guessed that as a merchant and city dweller, Quintus had little recent experience with horses. She was glad that the stable master had a mount that was gentle and easy to handle.

"Ready to go?" she asked him, raising her voice so that he could hear it over the sound of the rain. He nodded, his face set with something like determination, and it made Wyn smile a little. She nodded again and they were off, blazing a trail through the heart of the plains and hoping that the rain would yet stop before they reached their destination.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reviews=love!

Quintus had been to Whiterun only once before, on one of his very early field expeditions when he had just began to study under Nurelion. The old Elf had sent him several miles into the tundra to gather dirt and rock samples. At the time, he had been unsure as to why Nurelion needed such things. Upon returning to the city, he'd learned right quick that, while there were important details to be learned from soil (acidity, how it affects plants, how it differs and compliments other soil, and so on), there hadn't actually been a definitive reason for his journey. Nurelion just wanted him to have a taste of the country he was still so new to, and had thrown himself rather unwittingly into.

It had worked, for the most part. Quintus had been graced with the startling and unexpected beauty that Skyrim had to offer, and when he returned to Windhelm he had been changed as a result. Opened. The harsh and rugged Nordic lifestyle had been momentarily peeled back and he'd been able to catch sight of what lay beneath. What he had seen went against all of his childhood expectations of Skyrim and the Nord way of life. That was the first time he felt awed by the people around him. It was not the last time.

It was difficult to explain, but Wyn was very much like the land around her. She was cold and distant, but hearty and sure. And she had shown him many parts of herself that told him she was not truly cold, not all the way through. That, like Skyrim, she had many layers just waiting to be noticed.

They spoke very rarely while they rode, but the silence was a comfortable one. Quintus hadn't ever ridden so deeply into the tundra before, and couldn't help but stare at the landscape, so different from the snow covered hills and mountains outside of Windhelm. The lovely colors of the plants, the lavender and tundra cotton, and the blue sky and golden plains, it all had him sinking into something like relaxation. Such a thing was hard to come by when he was being bustled around in his saddle. That particular problem would have to wait just a little longer though.

It was a relatively seamless journey through Whiterun, and they arrived in Rorikstead just as the sun was beginning to set. The lovely ruddy light tinted over the horizon and lit up everything in sight, including Wyn. He watched her carefully out of the corner of his eye, not wanting to be caught staring but not being able to help himself. With the light cascading over her she appeared to be almost haloed, like a deity, and it fascinated him.

"It is a small farming community," she suddenly said, the first words in the last two hours. Quintus allowed himself to fully turn his eyes to her as she spoke. He watched her dismount and patted her horse gently on the rump as she looked over at him. "But it has an inn, and we'll need the rest for tomorrow."

He knew why: they would be going after the Briarheart tomorrow, and it was most definitely result in a battle. The Forsworn weren't just going to let them walk in and politely ask for the heart of their leader, after all.

She was still watching him, and he knew the reason for this as well. She was waiting for him to dismount. But such a thing was hard to do when an inexperienced rider such as him happened to be sore and stiff in a million different unmentionable places. He had a feeling he was bruised all over his inner thighs and rear. Even the thought of standing pained him.

Lucky for him, then, that Wyn was so matter-of-fact about everything. He had never really liked that attribute in his Nord neighbors, but now he found himself warming to it, even appreciating it. She walked to the side of his mount and looked up at him with knowing eyes.

"You'll do better if you get it over with, alchemist."

Anyone else would have ended the sentence with an amused jab at his expense, but to his surprise she merely blinked up at him. There was no amusement in her eyes, only understanding, as if she had been in his position before and could quite clearly remember it. Hard to imagine, considering how easily she had dismounted and walked over to him.

He gritted his teeth and began to ease himself out of the saddle, lifting one leg over the horse's neck and then glancing at the ground. It was a far leap; too far to make without stumbling foolishly in front of her. He wasn't a proud Nord, but he was still a man, and the thought of being so useless galled him.

Wyn waited patiently. He knew she would be ready to catch him if he fell, and that thought dismayed him even more than the idea of stumbling itself. He set his jaw and slide down the horse, wincing as his feet hit the ground a little too hard. He did stumble, but was glad it was only a little bit. Wyn's hands had steadied him before he could make a complete fool out of himself. She gripped his shoulders lightly, with a pleasant force, and he was at once grateful that she hadn't felt the need to do something more drastic.

Instead of saying anything about Quintus's rather inept dismounting, Wyn removed her hands and stoutly told him, "Let's stable the horses and go into the inn. I could use a warm meal."

She turned, walked back to her horse, and didn't appear to notice the way Quintus painfully stepped forward to follow. Yes, he could barely feel his legs. He knew it'd be even worse in the morning, when the bruises had a chance to fester. But by the Eight, he was glad she had the decency not to comment. His pride would have suffered greatly, more so than it already had.

Once the horses were tended to, they made their way towards the inn. Wyn kept a slow, steady pace. Quintus knew it was to accommodate him, but neither commented on it as they ascended the stairs and walked to the door. He was glad indeed when they entered the little tavern, for it was warm and merry inside. A bard lingered by the fire, strumming a little tune on his lute. The smell of cooking meat and honeyed mead drifted through the air and drew them to the innkeeper, who was leaning against the counter overlooking the going-ons of his inn.

"Evening," he nodded to them, giving them both solid looks. He seemed to recognize Wyn, for his eyes warmed just a little as he turned to her. "Been a while, Brynwyn. I suppose you'll be wanting a room and some supper."

She appeared not to notice the surprised look on Quintus's face when he heard her full name. She did notice, of course, she noticed everything, for her warrior senses had been honed and complimented her more draconian qualities. She merely nodded, reached into the satchel at her side, and pulled out several septims for the food and board.

And to Quintus's surprise, the innkeeper immediately shook his head and said, "I couldn't take your coin, not after everything you've done for Skyrim. No, you and your companion will stay free of charge, on my honor as a Nord." This had Quintus's eyebrows rising that much higher.

Wyn sighed, cursing the pride of her own brethren. She closed her eyes briefly and when she opened them again, her gaze had hardened just a little. She said in a firm voice, "I will pay the same as any other. Besides, you need the coin, Mralki. Talos knows it."

The innkeeper, Mralki, shifted a bit as he digested the words. He was well aware that he needed the coin, and it wasn't very hard to convince him. There was just something about Wyn that made her very persuasive. She had to be listened to. There was nothing for it. It confused Quintus as much as it fascinated him, the hold she had on others. Himself, too, though he steadfastly ignored that little fact.

In any case, Mralki accepted her words and her money, and was soon showing them to the room they'd be staying in. To Quintus's relief, it had two separate beds, and he sat down on one with a sigh. Wyn set her pack down at the foot of her bed and then began to untie her cloak. Then her armor. And Quintus could only stare in shock and embarrassment as she peeled the tight garment away.

He knew enough about armor to know that simple clothing was worn beneath it, to protect the skin from chafing, but it still disquieted him to watch her so boldly move. Her back was to him and he knew that she was aware of his staring. His cheeks flushed brilliantly and to his utter embarrassment, he squeaked, "I'll…I'll just go and sit by the fire…" Gods, he was a fool.

But Wyn only smiled as she continued unbuckling the armor, caught off guard by the warmth she felt at his hesitance. Rare it was that men would so willingly leave her to undress, at least the warriors she often traveled with. Merchants were indeed a strange breed, to hold themselves in such a firmly decent manner.

She finished with her armor and set it down on the chest near her bed. Then she reached for her pack and searched for the elixir she had brought with her, thinking it would be useful. With it hanging loosely in her fingers, she walked out into the main room and searched for her companion. Quintus was sitting on one of the benches, leaning over a bowl of stew. She made her way to him and slid into the bench beside him, setting the potion near his tankard and looking over at him.

He looked up, eyed the bottle, then started to ask, "What's – " and then he stopped abruptly, because that was when his eyes caught sight of her, and he decided that while he very much liked the sight of her in her armor, this simple clothing was infinitely better.

"…this…?" he finished, had to tug the word from his throat, force it through his lips before he lost it altogether.

The tunic she wore was simple: a deep blue cloth with an embroidered collar. Her leggings were deerskin, and tight at that. He had seen her wearing similar clothes when she'd stayed with him at the White Phial after he'd healed her from poison. But somehow, tonight, it was different, and his heart hammered rather ostentatiously in his chest as if it refused to allow him to ignore it. He tried to anyway, because what else could he do?

Wyn raised an eyebrow at him and gave him a cheeky half smile that told him she was very aware of the look he had given her. His cheeks burned at this, mortified that she could read him so clearly, but he was glad when she merely told him, "It is an elixir of my own making that will soothe the pain of riding." She shifted it to him and nodded at it, "You'll feel better come morning, if you drink it all."

He looked back at the bottle and nodded. He'd certainly known she had some skill with alchemy, but the thought of her creating her own custom potion impressed him greatly. It was no doubt a lingering health potion. He would inquire into the ingredients later, but for now he had another question that had to be addressed.

He looked up at her, and asked, "Brynwyn?" And to his great surprise, he thought for a moment that she blushed.

He hadn't the time to know for sure, for at that moment Mralki arrived with her meal and a tall flagon of mead, and Wyn turned to thank him. When she turned back, her expression was once more composed in its normal blank canvas, and Quintus bit back a wave of disappointment.

She took a bite of her meal before answering him, and when she did it was clearly a thoughtful response. In a slow voice, she told him, "My full name is Brynwyn, though as a child my father often called me Wyn. The nickname stuck, though oftentimes I am forced to use my full name for…legal matters. I am Thane of Whiterun, therefore most know me by my longer name."

It was a thorough explanation, Quintus thought. But that still didn't explain the other side of the question. "The innkeeper mentioned something about what you've done for Skyrim." He watched for her reaction to his words, but she only calmly nodded, her eyes giving nothing away.

"I am an adventurer first and foremost. I help those I come across whenever I can." And Quintus felt another form of disappointment shoot through him, but this time it surprised him. Had he thought himself special, to have her assist him with this quest? Had he thought she had come because she enjoyed his company?

It was with disheartened consternation that he realized he had thought this. He had unwittingly believed himself to be somehow important to her, that she would travel across Skyrim in a matter of days just to hear what he needed, and to help him with it. But he knew now that her haste was probably only because she was bored, that she had nothing better to do, no one else to help. All at once he felt more foolish than ever. He should have hired the mercenaries after all.

"…I see," he slowly said, not looking at her. Wyn, unsure as to why his mood had so suddenly changed, tilted her head curiously and turned back to her meal.

She noticed that he hadn't touched the potion, and said, "The sooner you take that, the better you'll feel." And the better he'll sleep. She watched Quintus nod, and knew that there was something she didn't quite understand going on between them, challenging their friendship in a way that confused her. She said nothing more on the matter, though, preferring not to comment on what she did not understand, and simply went back to eating.

She was nearly finished with her meal when Quintus suddenly made a noise and deliberately said, "Brynwyn…I feel as if I've heard that name before." Odd, that, for such a name was not common. Deep in his thoughts, he hardly noticed the way Wyn stiffened and held her spoon a little harder, staring down at her meal with steely eyes that hoped beyond hope her companion would not remember where, exactly, he had heard her name.

Was it so much to ask for, to be a nobody? To be able to hide in a crowd of people who did not recognize her, who did not care if she lived or died? But she was Dragonborn, Slayer of Alduin, Skyrim's Hero, and she knew that it was. She just hoped that, in time, Quintus would understand why she kept all of this quiet.


	13. Gleamblossom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quintus and Wyn head out into the Reach to find their Briarheart...and Quintus struggles to figure out how to put on a suit of armor.

When he woke up the next morning, Quintus immediately realized two things. One, he wasn't nearly as sore as he'd anticipated being. Wyn's potion must have worked its magic, and he was grateful for it. The second thing that he noticed upon opening his eyes was that his companion was not in the room, and neither were any of her things.

He bolted upright with a sudden manic despair that he didn't fully understand. But when he stumbled outside in naught but the ruffled, wrinkled clothes he'd worn yesterday, he realized that he had nothing to worry. For there, across the cobbled road, stood Wyn, their packs layered around her as she brushed out her horse's coat.

He sleepily registered the fact that there were many people already up and about, and that it was probably unusual on his part to have slept in so late. This was a farming community, after all. Most of these people had probably woken up with the sun. With his mussed up hair and unwashed face, he knew he was probably something of an eyesore, and was surprised on his behalf that he suddenly cared about how he looked. Deep within he knew why, knew that his Nord companion was the reason for his concern, and that frightened him all the more.

He hesitated, and then stepped down into the sunlight, his eyes transfixed on Wyn. Now that he was moving closer, he faintly heard the sound of her mumbling as she spoke to her mount. Indeed, the relationship between Nord and beast was intriguing and strangely intimate, and he wondered if perhaps he should just go back inside and freshen up. But he was too late, for at that moment the golden eyes of his companion slanted up and clashed rather headily into his.

"You're awake. Took you long enough," she said cheekily, with a smile that made her eyes almost glow. He swallowed back a wave of embarrassment, hoping that he had not disrupted the schedule. But she didn't appear to be angry, and surely would have woken him up herself if she was so bent on leaving Rorikstead. It was still early, before the time he normally ate breakfast, but he knew that this was not Windhelm and things were done differently here.

"Ah…yes," he paused, then blurted, "I thought for a moment that you'd already left." And immediately regretted his words, for the sweetness of her smile hardened just a little at them. He hurried to amend himself, "Not that I thought you really had, as you were the one who asked me to accompany you, it's just that you were gone, and the supplies had gone, and I thought – "

Thankfully, she cut him off with a disarming laugh. It was odd to hear it, especially when he thought she was angry with him, but now her laughter rang clearly over the settlement. It struck him that he had never heard her laugh before, not once in the week she had lived with him nor in any of their dealings. Now, he stared, and felt almost winded and breathless at the sound and sight of her, as if he were the one gasping with merriment and not her.

"Indeed," she said when she had calmed, "if you continue waking up so late I may yet leave you to your sleep, alchemist." He stared, then blushed when he realized that for all her bluntness, she was in fact joking. There was a shred of humor in her voice, and in the way she looked at him. And how could he not notice the almost tender way she said 'alchemist', as if his nickname (indeed, his entire being) was a source of endearment for her?

He found himself smiling, both at the thought of this newfound fondness and the idea of her making a joke. He'd nearly forgotten that she could make jokes, that she had, especially during that very first meeting all those months ago in the White Phial, when his master had attempted to outwit her.

"I'm sorry," he said as he approached her, and reached out to touch her horse. The great animal huffed and pressed his nose against Quintus's palm. "I'm not used to waking so early." Wyn watched him interact with her horse and hummed, then bent to toss the brush she'd been using into her saddlebag.

"Fear not," she told him with a wink, "I won't leave you stranded in the middle of nowhere, tempting as it may be."

They exchanged smiles and Wyn nodded to the inn. "Go and have breakfast. When you're ready, we'll head out. There's a chance that we may stay here again tonight, if our trip into the Reach goes smoothly." The thought of sleeping in a bed and not on the hard ground had him nodding eagerly and turning to the inn.

They had been very fortunate thus far in finding decent accommodations, but Wyn wondered how long their luck would hold. She turned her eyes upwards to look at the horizon, where more rainclouds were gathering. It was treacherous to travel into the Reach in the rain. The rocky landscape turned muddy, and landslides were not uncommon. But she had done so in the past, and she hoped that they wouldn't have to delve too deeply into that hold before stumbling upon a Forsworn nest. Those barbarians were everywhere; they were not hard to find.

But they guarded their leaders fiercely, and she was once more plagued with doubts. Should she leave Quintus here and venture into the Reach on her own? A city alchemist was no use to her in battle. He would only get in her way. But leaving him behind seemed unthinkable, especially with his reaction to her upon his waking. And even if they should find a safe encampment in the wilds, it was still dangerous to leave him there unguarded. All manners of beasts stalked through these lands, and Forsworn rangers often traveled through even the most deserted areas.

She thought hard on this as she readied their horses for the journey, tying the saddlebags and adjusting their weight. By the time Quintus came back outside, she had reached something of a decision: leaving him here would be unwise, but she would not force him to accompany her. She would ask what he'd prefer, and base her final decision on what he himself wanted.

"The Briarheart will be the hardest ingredient to obtain," she started when he came close enough to hear her. She busied herself with making sure her saddle was tight enough so that she didn't have to look up at him. "If you wish, you may remain here while I search for one."

She wasn't sure what his reaction to this would be, but found herself surprised when he blurted out an indignant, "No!"

She looked up quickly, hoping he was not offended by the manner of her question, for any warrior certainly would have been. But he was no warrior, and there was no insult in his eyes, at least none that had to do with hurt pride.

Quintus frowned, "I would not wait idly by and let you risk your life for my own cause. We'll go together…or at least as far as you deem it wise." For he knew he was no fighter, and knew as well that he would only burden her if it came down to that. He was an alchemist, that was all, and had no intention of being anything but.

Wyn stared for a moment, at a loss as to how to respond, and then finally nodded slowly. She was glad of his choice, and gladder still that he knew his own limitations, as many men – and women – did not.

"Very well," she told him, and handed him the reigns of his horse. "We'll find a place to leave the horses and make a small camp. You will need armor, and a sword, to protect yourself should anything happen while I'm gone."

Lucky, she thought, that she'd had the insight to bring that spare leather armor along with her. She reached for it now, crouching down and throwing open her pack. Quintus was about to tell her that he had no intention of wearing armor - and certainly wouldn't know how to put it on, let alone use a sword of all things – when his words died in his throat. He watched silently as she pulled out the leather and held it up for him to take. He did so, hesitantly as if he were reaching out to a wild beast. Once again, he was out of his depths.

Wyn eyed the way he looked at the armor and let out a soft chuckle.

"Come," she said, standing up and making for the inn, "it will be better to have it on before we go into the Reach. The Forsworn make a habit of ambushing unsuspecting travelers."

He stared at her back, then felt himself blush when he realized that she intended to assist him with the armor. Such an act would be far too intimate, and he paused as he wondered if perhaps he should just stay at the inn and spare himself the embarrassment. But no, he knew he could not, not after asking her to go gallivanting across all of Skyrim to collect rare ingredients for his own purposes. He puffed out his chest, took a deep breath, and followed her inside. He would just have to man up if he wanted to survive this journey with his honor intact.

Inside the room they had used, Wyn was waiting. The armor was spread out over the bed, and when he entered the room she lifted up the main piece and thrust it immediately to his chest. Once again he was glad that Wyn was so matter-of-fact about everything, because anyone else might have poked fun at him for needing assistance in getting into the armor. But there was not judgment in her eyes that hinted at any such amusement, and he relaxed just a little, as much as his heart would allow him.

"You are not familiar with armor," Wyn said, breaking the delicate silence. Quintus was thankful for that, too, that they could fill his discomfort with words. The statement did not allow him much response, though, so he just remained silent. She leaned in and buckled something at his side, telling him, "It is not comfortable, but it will give me some piece of mind to know that you are protected."

That she cared so much of his wellbeing had him blushing, for reasons he could no longer ignore.

She was so close that he could nearly count her eyelashes, though her eyes were turned down as she concentrated on the buckles at his chest. He only hoped that she could not feel his rapid heartbeat, or hear the small intakes of his breath, or see the rising heat of his cheeks. If she noticed any of these things, she did not point them out.

"It's not so bad," he said, only to break the silence once more. It was, in fact, not quite as bad as he'd imagined, but it certainly wasn't pleasant being wrapped up in hard leather. It made him feel stiff, like he was trapped. The feeling rather suited the situation, especially with Wyn so close. That he felt trapped around her only furthered his blush, because that was not such a bad thing; he wanted to be trapped. And that thought above all others made him very embarrassed indeed.

She glanced up at him with a half-smile and gave the chest piece a firm tug. For a moment, he felt himself flailing, having not expected the move. It had brought him even closer to her, a feat that neither of them had anticipated. To his immense surprise (and pleasure) he thought he saw a bit of red invade her cheeks, but once again he hadn't the time to look for it, because she was moving around to reach for the armguards.

The main piece of the armor clung tight to his chest and slipped down to skirt around his legs. He was glad that this armor was of a one-piece variety and did not have greaves. How embarrassing would that be, having her kneel in front of him to adjust those? He would rather die than allow it.

She gripped his arm and pulled it out, her fingers cool and rough on his skin. Her face was equally cool and composed as she slid the arm piece around his upper arm and pulled it tight. It buckled in several places, and she had to move behind him to get the final one, which was in the back. She quickly pulled the other arm guard on, then reached down for the boots.

"I can get those on myself," he said hurriedly, sitting down on the edge of the bed. She nodded, and watched with keen, sharp eyes as he did so. But in his haste Quintus did not realize that the boots, too, had buckles. He went to get up and was surprised when Wyn pushed him firmly back down. The unexpected force had him staring, and yet another blush colored his face as she bent to her knees and pulled his leg out.

She chuckled and reached around the back of his shin to tug on more buckles (how many buckles were there?!) and said, "Careful, alchemist, we are not finished yet." If possible, his cheeks only got redder from there.

After that embarrassment was over, they stood and Wyn reached for a pair of leather gloves she'd thought would be more useful to him. A pair of bracers would just get in his way, as he had no battle experience. They were bulky, and heavy. The gloves would suit him better, even if they only protected him from the elements. She handed them to him and he pulled them on with a sigh. Then Wyn took a step back and looked him over carefully, taking in his transformation.

He was indeed transformed. Simple merchant he was not, and filled the armor surprisingly well. She was impressed that he looked so manly in the armor, and surprised that she thought of him so. She knew he was manly already, of course, but seeing him dressed in such a way had her feeling a little (tiny bit) lightheaded. It was a hard thing to explain, and a harder thing to accommodate.

Quintus himself only felt foolish, like a boy wearing his father's boots, playing at being a warrior. He had never wanted to be one, even when he was younger, and he felt very much out of his element as he stood before her. But still, something in her gaze made him pause. Something that looked almost like pride, as if she quite liked the look of him like this. That little emotion did wonders for him, and made him feel a little better, a little less silly.

She nodded and then reached for the steel sword she'd propped up against the wall. Walking forward, she gestured for him to take it. Reluctantly, he did, and was surprised to find that it was not as heavy as he thought, that he could lift it with a steady hand. She nodded at this, as well, and he smiled.

"I hope you never have to use it," she told him suddenly, and he looked up at her.

Her words ruffled him, surprised him, and he tried to play it off with a joking, "Me too. I would probably just harm myself rather than my enemies." He chuckled, and Wyn's expression warmed as well.

She stepped back and said, "We should be off. We've wasted enough time lingering."

Quintus nodded and slid the sword into the sheath at his side. They trudged outside, mounted their steeds, and began the next leg of their journey with warm, hastened hearts.


	14. Juniper Berries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please leave reviews/kudos, they always make my day :) Got a few chapters ready for posting, so check back this week!

Quintus had heard tales of the Reach, tales of savages and barbarians, but seeing it for himself felt vastly different. He was surprised because the image in his mind had been much different from the actual place. He’d imagined it to be a cold and barren place where the Forsworn ruthlessly roamed, but in reality the Reach was startlingly lovely.

It was rocky, and hilly. The mountains on the horizon stretched out to greet them, though they were not yet very far into the landscape. The plains were directly behind them, and they traveled through the winding rocks slowly, maneuvering the horses as best they could. Quintus was beginning to see just why the Forsworn seemed to like this area of Skyrim, for it allowed plenty of surprise attacks and ambushes. And the thought of that had him stiff in his saddle, which resulted of course in making his horse rather uneasy too.

“Don’t fret,” Wyn called, having noticed the wariness in which Quintus eyed the tall rocks. “I doubt there are any Forsworn patrolling so close to the borders.” 

She glanced back at him occasionally, making sure he was doing alright with that armor. She knew it was unfamiliar for him, but as the day progressed she wondered if perhaps he wasn’t all the happier for it. It was much more protective than the simple clothes he’d worn earlier.

She asked him how he fared later, when the sun had reached its peak in the sky. They stopped to set up a meager camp in a seemingly safe place, or at least as safe as Wyn could manage given the time constraint. They weren’t very far into the Reach, but she knew of several Forsworn camps in nearby areas that surely had a Briarheart leader. As soon as they’d stumbled upon the hidden little clearing, Wyn dismounted and proceeded to walk around it, inspecting every corner of it.

It was as good a camp as any they could have made in such a landscape. They’d been climbing steadily for the past few hours, and the uphill trek reaped the benefits they were met with now, as they overlooked the edge of the mountainside. Though they were still very much in the roots of the mountain, it was still a lovely sight to behold.

Quintus stumbled from his mount and stepped to the edge of the camp, peering out over the land that sunk down below them. He could no longer see the plains in the distance. Instead it was all rock and moss and delving hills and dangerous drops. It would have been all the lovelier had it been sunny.

As far as Wyn was concerned, they were lucky that the rain had held out on them thus far. Heavy black clouds still threatened them from the distance, but at least it wasn’t down pouring. Still, the air was thick with moisture and the sky was gray and angry, making everything seem colder than it truly was. Wyn was quick to toss Quintus his cloak, which he pulled on gratefully.

“This is a decent place to camp, at least for a few hours. Hopefully that is all we’ll need,” she said, dragging the horses into the center of the clearing and unloading only the heaviest bags. She tossed them to the ground and then paused for a moment to look around the mountainside that rose up above them on one side.

After a moment, she withdrew and muttered, “I’m not sure if we should risk setting up a tent. Or starting a fire, for that matter, though I suppose the latter cannot be helped.”  
Quintus frowned, “Is it really that dangerous?” Because he couldn’t really imagine how it could be. 

Wyn sighed and went to find several fist sized rocks for the campfire. As she did, she said, “It depends. We are still not so very far into the Reach, but sometimes Forsworn hunters have a tendency to travel far from their camp.” 

It wouldn’t be altogether uncommon to stumble across a group of them. Wyn desperately hoped that would not be the case, for the thought of leaving Quintus to the mercy of those savages made her feel cold and useless. And yet she knew that she couldn’t bring him with her into battle.

Quintus began to help her with the rocks. He made a circle of them in the ground while Wyn went off to gather firewood, and by the time she returned carrying broken branches, Quintus had finished. She dumped the wood beside the fire and crouched before it, piling it up within the circle. She hoped the wood was seasoned and not still green, otherwise any close by Forsworn would be drawn to their camp like moths to the flame.

But it was seasoned, and as they watched it burn Wyn made sure there was no smoke rising in an obvious manner to give their location away. 

After she’d secured the camp as best she could manage, she turned back to Quintus and said, “There is a camp due west of here, on the summit of this hill. I’ll be back as soon as I can, but if you hear voices, take the horses, douse the fire, and retreat into that outcropping. Leave the bags, they can be replaced.”

The outcropping she spoke of was a little, shallow cave several feet away. It was well hidden on all sides, and would provide a temporary safe haven for him if trouble came his way. It was the best they could do, in any case, and Quintus nodded. His nerves were screaming at him to not let her leave him all alone, but he knew he could not ask such a thing from her. He would wait bravely for her return; there was nothing else for it.

She left him there, headed up the hill, and in moments had disappeared from his sight. Quintus sat back and stirred the fire, already bored. His horse nickered at him and he sighed, rising to brush it down. The hour passed in such a manner, and by the end of it, Quintus’s nerves had calmed and he felt rather safe in that little camp. Perhaps a little too safe, for as yet another hour crept by, something happened that made him feel much less so.

Voices. In the beginning he thought he was imagining them, but as they got gradually louder, he knew that he was not. It was close to three hours since Wyn had left, and the afternoon was dragging on, and Quintus’s nerves came rushing headily back.

He threw dirt over the fire, scrambling up and jogging for the horses. They restlessly shifted, feeling his fright, but came willingly when he tugged them forward. The outcrop was in sight and he was hurrying for it, but fate would not see him reach it. For suddenly out of the rocks to his right came the figure of a woman. A woman dressed it feathers and leather, holding an equally fierce bow with an arrow trained right at him. He stopped immediately, his eyes wide with fear, and the woman gave him a fearless, gloating smile that had him shivering.

“What’s this? A traveler in our hunting grounds? Where is your companion, Imperial?” the woman said, and suddenly the reigns in Quintus’s hands were being jerked away, and two hands grabbed his shoulders and pushed him back into the center of the clearing. He tripped and fell, landing hard on his elbow as the barbarians laughed and jeered around him.

“Quiet,” one of the men snapped. He was no Briarheart, but he seemed to be acting as their leader, for the rest of them silenced their laughter at his command. He was dressed fiercely too, in that feather-leather armor, and his voice dripped with an accent Quintus had never before heard. 

He jerked his chin at one of the men, “Circle the encampment, try to find the Imperial’s companion.” 

The man immediately left, and Quintus had to bite back a thrill of fear, for surely they would find Wyn. She was gone long enough, and would no doubt be returning soon, unless she was…no, she wasn’t dead. She’d dealt with these people before, though she’d never had to worry about him before either…

The Forsworn leader stepped up to Quintus and gave him a chilling smile, “Now, what’s an Imperial doing wandering the Reach?” 

When Quintus did not respond, the man raised his eyebrows and hummed, “Don’t feel like talking? Perhaps you’ll change your mind when we get back to camp.” 

He stood up, then grabbed Quintus roughly and threw him into a standing position. “Tie him up and gather his provisions.”

The woman stepped closer, holding a strip of leather to use as ties, and was just dragging his arms behind his back when suddenly everything changed. A voice that nearly made him cry out with relief sternly ordered, “Let my alchemist go, or I loose my arrow.” 

The voice was shrouded in shadow, and Quintus found himself peering up trying to find her. The Forsworn were doing the same thing, but it was another moment before Wyn allowed herself to step into the light. Then suddenly she was at the edge of the clearing, bow drawn and pointed right at the woman behind Quintus.

Several emotions sprang up at the sight of her: fear, for she was covered in blood and grime; relief, for she was there; worry, because they were so outnumbered. His heart spiked through his chest like it was trying to find a way out, and he swallowed thickly as he felt the woman behind him shift restlessly. And then, out of the shadow of a rock just behind Wyn stepped the scout from earlier, that had been sent to find her. And he was holding a very lethal looking knife.

Quintus’s eyes widened, for Wyn had not yet seen the scout who crept up to catch her off guard, and she was still holding her bowstring taught. She wouldn’t have time to turn and deal with the enemy behind, but at the very least she seemed to be aware of Quintus’s face. The way he turned his eyes to something just past her shoulder, and she knew that they were both in more danger than she’d bargained for.

She cursed herself for allowing him to come into the Reach. What had she been thinking? That the trip would go smoothly and without a hitch? That they’d just happen to avoid any Forsworn groups when they roamed over near to every inch of this blasted country? And how could she so callously put him in danger, when he was not a fighter, when he could hardly swing a sword?

Her senses seemed to double with the rush of adrenaline that battered through her veins. That, and the draconian qualities that spiked her hearing and eyesight, would certainly help them get out of this sticky situation. She heard the one behind her sliding forward, the dirt and gravel shifting quietly beneath his boot, the dim and barely-there swipe of a blade through the air…and she found suddenly that she was very furious. Angrier than she could ever remember being. And at herself, no less. 

She should have known better than to bring him with her. Should have forced him to stay within the safety of Windhelm’s walls while she went out and did the dirty work. That was how it always was, and she should have stuck to it.

Her eyes glimmered with an anger that Quintus could very clearly see. The day had grown steadily darker as the rainclouds rolled closer, and the sun sank quickly even here in this snow-less land. He could see the gold of her eyes glowing through the dim light between them. And suddenly he was reminded of other eyes, eyes that had looked extremely similar as they glared at him from outside the city walls. Dragon eyes. Manipulative, irate, glimmering with intelligence, as if they saw past bone and sinew and right into the layers of time itself.

He barely saw her move. One moment Wyn had her arrow trained to the woman behind him, the next the bow was on the ground and she was twirling a knife from her boot, ducking just as the blade of her enemy came whirling where her neck had been. And then the man was gurgling, staring with wide eyes at Wyn’s face, because her knife was buried between his ribs so quickly that he seemed surprised at his inability to stop it. Well, he wasn’t the only one.

The moment her back was turned, the Forsworn woman had a knife of her own and was pressing it rather diligently to his neck. They weren’t going down without a fight, that was certain. And Wyn seemed neither surprised nor terribly concerned when she turned back around. In fact, she would have looked utterly bored, if not for the angry way her eyes still glittered.

The body of the man she’d stabbed thudded to the ground at her feet. She barely seemed to noticed. Certainly didn’t seem to pay much attention to the blood that dripped maliciously down her fingers. Her knife was coated with it. Her cheeks were splayed with red droplets that seemed to be drying on her skin. She looked almost pleased to wear the blood, as if she was proud to have killed so headily, so thoughtlessly. So mercilessly.

“Take one step, and your friend here dies,” the woman warned. Wyn barely seemed to hear her. Her eyes closed. The golden spell vanished momentarily and the air seemed lighter as a result. Quintus saw the Forsworn leader exchange glances with the woman, and suddenly the knife at his throat tightened, and he felt warmth seep down his neck. They’d drawn blood, though he could hardly feel the pain through the adrenaline. 

He saw Wyn’s nostrils flare. It was almost as if she could smell the blood. She turned her head in his direction and it felt like she was looking at him even though her eyes were shut. What on earth was going on? Quintus’s confusion ran rampant through him, for he had never seen her like this. He’d known she was a warrior, wasn’t surprised when she’d so easily killed the man before, but the qualities she exuded now didn’t add up. She seemed…inhuman. He was struck with the realization that this was not the first time he’d thought this of her, and stared in amazement. She looked perfectly human and he was being a fool, of course. Of course.

“Did you hear me, Nord?” the woman growled, turning the blade ever harder against his throat. Quintus swallowed and tipped his head up, never taking his gaze from Wyn. For whatever reason, he was not afraid. Her presence seemed to change everything, all his emotions.

Slowly, Wyn’s eyes opened once more. They were different, though Quintus was unsure exactly how. But the pupils had changed, turned in on themselves, and looked almost cattish. No, not cattish. Reptilian. Dragon eyes. The gold gleamed, glowed, shone right into the woman’s gaze, and for some reason the pull of her eyes had the woman’s hand loosening, just a little. How…strange.

“I heard you, Forsworn scum,” came her answer. Her words were bored, lazy. Quintus was reminded of their first and second meetings, when he’d seen Wyn in his shop with that similar look. Like she had nothing to live for. Like she thought the world to be a very dull place, as if she’d already done everything there was to be done. Her words had the two Forsworn growling. The knife once more tightened and the pull of battle was imminent. Why had she goaded them? He sighed.

But then Wyn kept talking, like she wasn’t yet ready to engage them. Her eyes briefly flickered to the knife at Quintus’s throat and he was relieved that she still seemed to remember his little predicament. For a moment there, he hadn’t been so sure. 

“Tell me, how is Madanach?” Wyn wondered dryly, then smirked. Her eyes glowed like embers through the darkness, and seemed to pulse with dim light. 

“Oh, but how silly of me. I forgot that he’s dead. Stuck through with…hmm, what weapon did I use? Was it this one?” She pulled out the blade that hung at her side. The dark metal was like nothing Quintus had ever seen before. It gleamed in the dim light like it was made of moonlight. She swung it aimlessly through the air twice, watching as the Forsworn stiffened, their eyes spiking with anger. But their fury could not hope to match up to hers.

“You! Now I remember! Your face is posted in every camp. I think it’s about time we settle this matter once and for all,” the Forsworn leader growled, stepping forward. His blade gleamed just as fiercely, and Quintus felt his fear rise up once more.

“Mm,” Wyn agreed, then turned to catch Quintus’s eye. She blinked at him, like she was trying to tell him something. He had no idea what that was, but it did make him feel somewhat better. Safe even in all this danger. 

“But first I’d like for you to release my alchemist. I need him,” she said, not looking away from Quintus even once. And to his mortification, he felt his cheeks redden at her words. That he could find the time to be so embarrassed in such a dangerous situation staggered him. But Wyn only smiled, her eyes cheeky even as they glowed, and with an amused chuckle, she stepped forward.

“We seem to be at an impasse,” she said, almost in amusement, like this sort of thing happened far too often to be truly annoyed. “You have my alchemist, whom I find I’m not yet ready to part with. And I still have my head attached to my shoulders. Shall we settle this the Nordic way?” She began walking around the leader, tilting her head casually as she stared at her opponent. When he raised his eyebrows at her, Wyn explained, “Whoever draws first blood gets to keep him. The other either dies or walks away victoriously. What say you?”

Quintus stared at her, wondering why she’d suddenly thought it was acceptable to gamble away his life – and hers. But he knew the answer even before he thought it. It was because she had full confidence in herself, knew that beating him would be as simple as breathing, so long as she played the situation properly. Luckily, the Forsworn just seemed to find her amusing, obviously undaunted. 

He scoffed and said, “That’s quite a gamble. But how can you be sure that my companion here won’t simply cut off your alchemist’s head while you’re distracted?”

The thought made Wyn even angrier, if possible. Her eyes jerked to Quintus’s and then to the woman behind him. With a clipped voice, she said, “We will cross that bridge when we get to it. What say you?” 

Quintus could not bring himself to believe that she was so unprepared, but perhaps she really was just making this up as she went. The thought worried him, of course, but to his surprise he found that he was more worried for her own safety than his. It hardly made sense, but he didn’t have the time to unravel his emotions, for the leader nodded his head, and the battle commenced.

It was hardly a battle, though. It was more like a flash of metal and the clang of connecting swords; a grunt from the Forsworn as he tried to push Wyn away; Wyn’s growl when he was successful, and her cry as she danced out of the path of his blade. And then it was the burnished glow of Wyn’s eyes as she caught the Forsworn’s, and the slowing movement of his body as her entrancing eyes hit him like a spell. She only needed a moment, a second, and when the opportunity came to her she did not let it to pass without taking advantage of it. Her free hand immediately tugged at something in her armor, a blade she’d tucked between two layers of metal. She brought her sword up to block the downward crest of her enemy’s, and at the same time she threw the knife with deadly, poignant aim at the woman holding Quintus by the throat, hardly even glancing his way.

He hadn’t the time to feel the fear of having that knife whirl past his skin. It was lodged into the woman’s neck before he even knew what happened, and the soft gurgling sound of blood seeping through her throat made him grimace. But her grip loosened, her blade falling with a clatter. And then she followed, her body dropping with a thud. She was dead before she even hit the ground. And it would have been inspiring, if the move hadn’t been so risky. That knife could just have easily ended his life, and the thought did not bring him much comfort.

Quintus shifted away from the body, tripping and falling on a stone. His fall was graceless, but it hardly mattered. Wyn was still finishing off the other Forsworn, and no one paid him any mind. He could only sit there in the dirt and gape at his companion and at the body beside him. Never before had he seen so much death in one day. The adrenaline thudded through him, slowly dispersing. What remained was the prickle of pain at his neck. He slowly brought his fingers up to touch the wound and stared at the blood, dazed.

When the dying grunt of the Forsworn met his ears, Quintus raised his eyes to Wyn just in time to see her lurch her blade from the man’s chest. It was a brutal sight to see, and it made him queasy and sick. He deepened his breathing and began to recite a lengthy list of plants native to Cyrodiil in his mind, but (Arrowroot, Foxglove, Goldenrod) nothing could calm him from the sight of Wyn as she turned to him, eyes wild and fingers dripping with blood.

For a moment, everything was deathly silent. They stared at each other. She looked utterly inhuman, but not because she had just shown him her aptitude for killing Forsworn. It was something else that gave him pause, made him fear her. Something that had to do with her eyes, which still glowed with that cattish, reptilian gold.

Her sword clattered to the ground and she approached him, dropping to her knees in front of him and reaching for his face. It was a thoughtless move on her part – what did she think she was doing, anyway, touching him? But it mattered not, because before she could so much as graze her fingers over his cheeks, Quintus flinched and she immediately drew back, prickling in silent hurt.

He felt foolish as soon as his face had contorted. Was he truly afraid of her after she’d just saved his life? His emotions were thick and confused, and they were portrayed in his voice when he raggedly asked, “Your eyes…why do they look…?”

His sentence trailed off, because he could bring himself to say what he was thinking. The words, ‘why do they look like dragon eyes’ sounded utterly foolish. But Wyn didn’t question him. In fact, she didn’t answer him at all.

In moments she stood, turned from him to retrieve her sword. Then she crouched beside the body of the man she slew and wiped the blade on his clothes, ridding it of the majority of blood. Quintus watched the careful movement feeling rather like prey himself. When she had turned to look at him before, it almost felt as if his death was next. Like she was a predator and he, her next victim. His senses screamed at him, telling him that something was off, that he was not safe, but he couldn’t move even a muscle as he stared at her. He felt like a rabbit frozen with fear.

He looked like one too. Which was why Wyn merely ignored him and began gathering their packs, which were strewn out over the ground and needed some manner of rearranging. 

When she said nothing, Quintus struggled to once again find his voice, and he staggered to his feet in something akin to determination, though he was still hesitant and afraid. “You must answer me, Wyn. Is there something I should know before we go any farther?”

She paused, staring hard at the food she was stuffing back into their packs. It vaguely occurred to her that she had never heard him use her name before, but she hadn’t the time to enjoy the sound of it rolling off his tongue. She was too busy musing at the rest of his words, at the warning in his voice. 

Did she have something to tell him? She could imagine that conversation quite easily now, especially after witnessing his fear. 

_Oh, by the way Quintus, I happen to be the fabled Dragonborn. So sorry I didn’t mention it sooner._

No. She did not want to tell him. She wanted him to remain as he was, oblivious to everything, forever in the dark about who she was and what she’d done. 

So instead of being truthful, Wyn only said, “I don’t know what you want me to say. My eyes are a product of my birth, nothing more.” 

Liar, she thought, you’re nothing better than a liar. She didn’t deserve him. It was a sentiment she’d been feeling quite a lot lately, but even more so now.

Quintus stared at her, trying to decipher her words, trying to pick them apart and figure out if she was really telling him the truth. Apparently he saw no reason to distrust her entirely, though something still pricked at the corner of his mind, telling him that there was still more he did not know. But it was enough for now. He would trust her. 

That he would give her his trust so easily made her heart ache, for she knew she was unworthy of it.


	15. Moon Sugar

They didn’t make it back to Rorikstead that day, for the rain that had been following them on their journey once more set in. Wyn decided to bunker down for the night in a shallow cave they rather haphazardly stumbled upon. It was only a few hours trek back to civilization (and warm beds), but Wyn knew of the dangers of traveling through this sloping terrain when it was muddy and wet. It would be too easy for one of the horses to trip and injure itself.

Their journey was quiet, with no traces of the banter they had slowly begun to fall into during their travels thus far. When they settled down and got the fire started, Wyn silently began preparing a stew. Not knowing what to do, Quintus sat a little to the side, feeling awkward after the happenings of the day. He was a little disgruntled at this feeling, for if anyone should feel awkward surely it must be his Nord companion. But, as always, she was a blank canvas, and the only emotions he saw on her face were probably put there by the shifting firelight and not her inner thoughts.

Indeed, Wyn was not one to fall prey to such sentiments. She was forever apathetic to the world around her. That Quintus felt such things completely passed over her and she saw no reason to act any differently than how she always did. She did not feel the prickling of something edging through her mind – certainly not – and because she did not truly understand human empathy she usually just ignored the entirety of it. 

It worked well for so far at least. She had long since given up trying to feel anything. Paarthurnax was a fool to think she was capable of what he liked to call ‘mortal compassion’. She hardly even knew what compassion was.

So she just continued to cut up several carrots and other vegetables they’d brought along, using the pocketknife she always carried for precisely this occasion. She ignored Quintus (though she couldn’t deny that she felt his presence regardless), and with every swipe of the blade she lost herself in that familiar blindness, the cover she had used for as long as she could remember.

Because she had began to bundle herself in the blank nature of her emotions, she found herself very surprised indeed when she suddenly blurted, “Perhaps you would like to take a look at the Briarheart. It should be prepared.” 

Usually when she was attempting to forget about all the annoying aspects of human nature, Wyn wouldn’t allow herself to blunder right back into them. It was probably just because she couldn’t work properly with him staring at her like he was. She raised her eyes to meet his and Quintus cleared his throat, turning away as if he was ashamed to be caught looking.

“Ah…right. I’ll just do that,” he mumbled, not entirely sure if her words were meant as a brush-off or simply an attempt to break the tense silence between them. He was never really sure around her.

He paused, for he didn’t know where she had put the spoils of the day. When she realized why he hadn’t moved, Wyn stiffened with a blush (a blush?! Why in Talos - ) and reached for her satchel. She pulled out the heart and tossed it to him, and Quintus leaped up to catch it in horror. Only when it was safely in his hands did he rather characteristically begin to berate her for the unruly move, something that came thoughtlessly. As if he had forgotten about why he should be awkward and why she should be trying to be a little more sympathetic.

“Be careful!” he frowned, cradling the heart closer as if he was afraid it would drop into the fire. “The properties would be ruined if it came into contact with the heat – the very makeup of the vessels would be changed and we’d have to find another one!” 

He muttered something about warriors and their blatant lack of décor, and Wyn raised an eyebrow at him curiously as she watched.

“Huh,” was all she said. It was offhanded, disrespectful, and quintessentially her. So much so that Quintus couldn’t help but stare, and then smile, for he was moments away from breaking out into laughter. A little chuckle escaped him as he sat back down, something that Wyn noticed. She smiled at him, and all at once her eyes were so full of mischievous wonder that he had to forcefully push back the blush that threatened to overtake him.

He decided to waste some of the water in his skin in order to clean the heart. They would be passing Rorikstead tomorrow and would no doubt stop to restock several supplies, so he didn’t think it would be a big deal. Wyn watched as he filled up a bowl with the liquid and began to gently wash it of the encrusted, dried blood. 

As he did, he suddenly asked, “You never told me how you came to find it.”

Because she had gone back to chopping vegetables, it took a few seconds for her to realize what he was talking about. When she did, Wyn turned back to her task with a stoic, almost cold expression. She knew he was surprised at her show of ruthless fighting from earlier, and she was unsure if she should tell him that of the almost too-easy way she had dealt with the small group of Forsworn. The quick, seamless way she’d cut through their numbers could only be attributed to her unique soul, which was perhaps darker than she’d like to admit. 

Instead she merely said, “As I expected, I found their encampment close by. Their numbers were few. I had little trouble obtaining what I needed.”

In some ways, her explanation was even colder than it would have been if she had just admitted to her bloody actions. Quintus knew she was not like the innocent housewives of Cyrodiil, and he had heard also that Forsworn Briarhearts were tough opponents. He looked up at her and said as much, still curious about what a real Briarheart warrior was like, as he had only ever read about them. He knew quite a lot about their hearts (he’d done a dissertation on their alchemical traits and magical capabilities back during his school days at the University), but as for the actual nature of these men, he knew very little.

“Was he…human? Or undead?” he wondered, half to himself but mostly to Wyn, because even though she was silent through his questions he still hoped she would shed some light on his musings. As someone who had fought with these warriors first hand, naturally he would want her inside knowledge. But Wyn, not terribly adept in explanations of any kind, could only give him jagged, unfinished responses that only gave cause for further questions.

“I do not know…” she trailed off with a look of contemplation, for she really didn’t see herself as very qualified to answer. 

“I stumbled upon a resurrection ceremony once. The Hagravens were performing some sort of spell but I do not know the nature of the rite.” There were two Hagravens and she hadn’t exactly stopped to watch.

But Quintus looked absolutely mesmerized by this. He leaned forward, his eyes bright with the look she’d come to label as his ‘obsessive alchemical expression’.  
In a curious voice he asked, “Really? It seems you’ve have quite a few adventures! Were you out retrieving an artifact for someone?” 

Perhaps it was naïve of him, but Quintus really only thought of her as some glorified treasure-hunter who tended to help people with the dirtier side of their plans. It wasn’t all that far-fetched, Wyn thought. She often thought of herself in much the same light.

She was surprised, though, that their conversation had taken such a turn. Now, Quintus seemed much more curious about her adventures, rather than Briarhearts in general. It was oddly refreshing and even intimate to her, for people tended not to wonder about her own life. When they looked at her, all people really saw was the Dragonborn, and rarely stopped to wonder at how she was so adept at fighting or such things.

Slowly, she responded, as if she was unsure how to find the words. 

“…No. I was merely exploring.” 

And he looked at her as if she was crazy, because sure, he’d heard plenty of explorers, but he could hardly relate to them. As a city alchemist, Quintus could never understand the thrill of the adventure. More often than not, he thought of those types as reckless and, well, stupid.

But there was nothing stupid about Wyn. Whether he had thought so in the past, he had learned very quickly that she was a warrior of different make than any other he had come to know. But he was confused for this reason as well, because just what was she? A warrior, an adventurer, an explorer, a treasure-hunter. He somehow doubted that all warriors fit under this rather broad category.

“I see,” he said, even though it was fairly clear that he didn’t. He was starting to retreat back into silence, fearing that if he said any more, he would once again give away his own incompetence in these matters. But Wyn only smiled and gave a little chuckle, as if she was expecting his response and was, in fact, pleased at it.

In a softer voice, a voice that rather startled Quintus (wasn’t she only brash, mischievous, compelling?), Wyn murmured, “There is nothing like exploring. Perhaps it is merely my own prejudice as a Nord, but Skyrim is a rather lovely place.” 

She had turned her concentration back to her work, but there was an almost far-away look in her eyes, as if she was remembering things that brought her happiness. He thought she was rather lovely.

Quintus paused, turning back to his own work, and mused, “I suppose so. It’s very different from my homeland.” 

He wasn’t sure what else to say, for he really didn’t know Skyrim like she did. He had traveled around it a little, but not to the extent that she had, and he would feel foolish telling her of his silly little trips outside of Windhelm. 

He figured their conversation would end there, but to his surprise, Wyn nodded and said, “It certainly is. Cyrodiil has a beauty of its own. Perhaps a gentler beauty.”  
He stared in surprise as she stirred the chopped vegetables into the stew.

“You’ve been to Cyrodiil?” he asked, his shock leaking out into his voice. Was there anywhere she hadn’t been? And then he smiled, because somehow he couldn’t imagine Wyn walking around the Imperial City. She would surely stick out like a sore thumb, so different she was in both countenance and temperament. 

He shook his head and said in amusement, “Forgive me. I’m just surprised.”  
She smiled and leaned back, “I had family in Bruma. An…uncle. I was only a child at the time, but I remember the trip quite well.”

Quintus no longer felt a fool. He was very knowledgeable about his homeland, after all, and asked earnestly, “Have you been to the Imperial City? I was born there, you know. The White Gold Tower always took my breath away…I would love to return there someday.”

She stared, somehow caught off guard at the emotions behind his words. It wasn’t homesickness, but rather the same distant, happy look she’d had when thinking on her past adventures. She felt her breathing shorten and wondered at that, and at the way she suddenly remembered their kiss, all those months ago on the floor of his stockroom. What would it be like to kiss him again? Would he respond with the ardor he’d had before? Or had it merely been surprise, and pity for her, that had made him kiss her back? Would he think her a fool for recalling a memory that perhaps he had already forgotten?

She realized he was staring, his brow furrowed as he no doubt wondered why she had not responded. She thought she was blushing (again?!) and felt rather horrified by this, and so she hurried to say, “Yes. Yes, the Imperial City. I was there briefly with my parents.” 

Her answer must have been adequate enough for him, because Quintus hummed and launched into an eager description of the White Gold Tower and how it would glimmer like the metal it was named for when the sun hit it just right. 

And as he told her tale after tale of his childhood in the City, Quintus rather thought that the Golden tower of his memories shone almost as brightly as Wyn’s eyes in the firelight. But as for the results of this realization, he would not know of them until much later, when he recalled the exact moment in which he had fallen for the fabled Dragonborn, Thane Brynwyn of Windhelm, the warrior he would recklessly come to love.


	16. Scathecraw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So this one's a little weird. Don't say I didn't warn you lol. Also, thanks for the comments/kudos! Love you guys ;)

They made it to Rorikstead late the next morning, having risen before the sun to trek down through the rocky foothills. Quintus was very pleased with the bright sunlight. The weather only encouraged the blissful feelings rising up within him. He wasn’t sure why he was in such a good mood. Perhaps he was glad with their conversation last night. Speaking of home had made him feel years younger, as if he was a mere boy apprenticing at The Gilded Carafe in the Market District.

Wyn was in neither a good nor a bad mood as they entered the little farming community. She watched her companion stumble from his horse, his dismount much more graceful than it had been upon first leaving. He threw his arms over his head and stretched, his eyes flickering happily over the peaceful village. 

As she swung herself down from her saddle, Quintus said, “I’d love to live in a little place like this after I retire. Get away from the city. Maybe open a little herbal shop in my house.” 

His words so shocked her that she couldn’t respond, and settled to simply stare at him in surprise.

He truly was in a wonderful mood. He’d been saying dreamy things like that all morning, things that had taken Wyn by surprise because they had revealed parts of him that she hadn’t known existed. 

He was in the middle of outlining the kind of shop he would open, and what kind of ingredients he would provide, when Wyn blurted out, “But you hate herbal shops!” 

It was true. He’d told her something similar once when she’d said something about the little aromatherapy shop up in Solitude. He had blanched at what he’d then called ‘an insult to alchemists everywhere’, and had proceeded to tell her that he would never so much as walk into a herbal ‘alchemy’ shop, even if he was on his deathbed and it was the only place that could help him. It was such a staunch rebuttal that Wyn hadn’t forgotten, and that was why she found herself so surprised at him now.

He paused, frowned, and cleared his throat, clearly feeling a little embarrassed to be called out. 

“Erm…well, when I say ‘herbal shop’, I don’t really mean it in that sense. It will be an alchemy shop first and foremost.” As he turned to unbuckle the girth of the saddle, Wyn had the feeling he was blushing.

She chuckled and the two of them led their horses into one of the fenced in pastures. As she dropped her heavy saddle to the ground, she glanced up at him with that sly mischief and said, “Living out in the country is much different than city life, you know. I recommend you get yourself a little bride to help around the house.”

As expected, Quintus immediately turned beet red and began to splutter, for he wasn’t very keen on having this kind of conversation with her. Wyn only laughed and clapped his shoulder, her golden eyes bright with amusement.

“You may have to settle for a shield maiden of Skyrim, alchemist. Imperial women are hard to find this far north.” She reached into her saddlebag to pull out a coin purse and added with no small amount of laughter, “Nordic women are no gentle folk. You’ll have a wife as well as a warrior: quite the catch, don’t you agree?”

With that, she sauntered toward the inn, humming something quietly beneath her breath with that impudence that often made him feel trapped. He stared at her until she disappeared inside, and turned to watch their mounts.

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he couldn’t stop imagining Wyn as that bride, helping him around the house, dealing with unruly customers…waking up in the same bed every morning. It was probably because she was such a warrior, and one of the few female ones he’d ever met, and that was why he had fit her into that image. He was being silly. And yet…something inside him brightened at the thought of such a life. Of getting the chance of actually marrying, a feat he had never seriously considered, and to someone like her.

He shook his head and began to trudge to the inn, annoyed at himself for thinking of such ridiculous things. Wyn would never settle down into such a boring life. Why would she want to marry a simple alchemist like him when she could have an exciting warrior who shared her adventurous spirit? Besides, she wouldn’t exactly make an ideal wife anyhow – her cooking left much to be desired and she was atrocious at cleaning, if her house in Whiterun had anything to say on the matter.   
The morning he spent cleaning it, it had taken him close to two hours before it looked even remotely livable. (Apparently Housecarls weren’t the same as servants, because it seemed that the only thing that Lydia woman did was sit around reading or polishing her unused sword. Bah.)

He entered the inn and immediately looked around for his pale companion. She was talking with the innkeeper, Mralki. As he got closer, Quintus realized they were discussing the recent rumors about bandits along the Greenspring Pass, the road that traveled through the mountains into Hjaalmarch hold. 

When she saw him approach, Wyn told him, “We should make our way to the Old Road and travel into Hjaalmarch from there. I’d rather not run into bandits.” 

Even before she was finished talking, Mralki was hurriedly saying, “No roads are safe, there are stories of the Old Road too. Just be careful, Brynwyn.”

Quintus looked at his companion. She gave Mralki a short nod and turned to the fire. As she warmed her hands above the flames, she told him, “Running across bandits is inevitable, though I do hope we get lucky, if only for your sake.” Because taking down a few bandits wouldn’t normally faze her, but Wyn did not want a repeat of their trip into Forsworn territory. Quintus didn’t, either.

He nodded, crouching near the flames, and asked, “We’re not staying the night, are we?” He already knew the answer from the way she restlessly shifted, but he still wanted to know anyway. Wyn glanced at him and shook her head.

“We’ll be cutting across the plains today. It is a good place to travel. Warm, dry…and we’ll be able to see if trouble is coming our way long before it reaches us.” Somehow, she had a feeling her words didn’t exactly console him. 

She sent him an amused smile and said, “Let’s get a bite to eat, then we’ll head out.” 

She had only really stopped because she knew he’d want to stretch his legs a bit. And talking with Mralki had helped her to plan out the next stage of their journey. But true to her word, they didn’t linger long. About half an hour later as they mounted their steeds, Wyn decided that perhaps they should have a talk about the final two ingredients they would need.

“Well get the Mammoth tusk powder next,” she called to him as they trotted out of the little village. Quintus, still very unused to horses, did his best to let his movements flow with that of the horses, but it was difficult, especially when he had to concentrate on speaking. Once again he envied how easy Wyn made it look: she was an absolute natural in her saddle, so at ease and comfortable that she probably could have ridden in her sleep.

He clenched the reins and answered, “So we’re heading to Stonehill Bluff then. And you mean for us to take the Old Road. How long do you think it will take to cross the plains?”

Her answer came so readily that he had a feeling she had taken similar journeys many times in the past, not that it really surprised him. 

“A day and a half, by our direction. We’ll pass the city tomorrow morning and reach the Old Road by afternoon.” 

A day and a half. That would mean they’d have to camp out there tonight. Well, Quintus was sure it would be better camping in this terrain than it had been in the Reach, or at least he hoped it would.

He’d been into the Whiterun hold only a few times before but had never ventured so deeply into the plains. He was surprised at how lovely the landscape was. Colorful flora dotted the landscape, standing out brightly against the golden grasses. Many times he saw lavender and cotton tundra tumbling in the breeze. He was pleased, also, that they hadn’t run into any of those bandits or some such danger thus far. When they came across a crystal clear stream, he was delighted when Wyn decided to stop and let their horses rest.

Wyn immediately made her way to the stream, crouching down and splashing her face with water. Quintus followed her example and did the same, sighing out pleasantly when the cool water dripped down his neck. It was a warm day and with no trees to cover them, the sun beat down on their weary forms. Better than the rain, he thought, glancing up at the sky as if making doubly sure that no dark clouds haunted their wake.

He then turned back to the water and, as he began to refill his water skin, Quintus saw that he’d grown a little tanner over the last day or two. The sudden thought made him turn to Wyn with a concentrated frown, for he abruptly realized that she had not grown tanner at all. Indeed, her skin was as pale and smooth as ever, forever unchanged to the elements. 

It was very curious, especially when he mentally added it to his list of strange qualities he had noticed she possessed. Among them were her glowing, compelling eyes, her almost-white hair, her penchant to go dungeon-hopping, and the rather inhuman way she carried herself. And now that he thought of it, all of these characteristics reminded him of one particular creature, a monster from lore who was both merciless and beautiful…

He jerked his eyes to her in surprise, dropping his water skin into the stream as shock commandeered his muscles. It made perfect sense. Wyn was a vampire. What other explanation was there? She fit the description perfectly. Except, his logical side reasoned, she’d been traveling in the sunlight all day and it hadn’t seemed to affect her. But surely there were spells to block sunlight. Her armor was enchanted, too. Perhaps she had protected herself in such a way. 

And then that led him to his other query: he had seen her eating at the inn, and also long before that when she had stayed the week at his shop. Though he also noticed that she rarely finished her entire meal and often left some of it uneaten on her plate. And then there were also those times when Quintus would find her gone during all times of the day at his shop, and she would not be back for several hours. Did she go to feed on…whatever it was vampires fed on in a city full of living, breathing people? 

He shuddered, realized he had closed his eyes, and then realized that Wyn was staring at him with a jaunted eyebrow. Oh Divines, he was alone with a vampire in the middle of nowhere – 

“Is the heat getting to you, alchemist?” she asked, her voice full of that amusement.   
It normally would have made him feel warm, but this time he felt the opposite. The cold grip of fear tugged at his heart. 

His voice cracked when he answered, “U-um, no. I…erm, was just thinking of…something…” By the Eight, he hoped she wasn’t hungry. 

He turned to snatch his water skin back up, very aware of her presence beside him. But Wyn either didn’t notice or didn’t care that he was so tense. She merely shrugged and took a long drink from her skin before filling it back up and slinging it back to her waist. And as they mounted again, Quintus began to wonder if vampires drank water, too, or if he was just being ridiculous once more.

Contrary to her outer disregard, Wyn did in fact feel Quintus’s tension. It would be hard not to, even if she was just a normal human. But as it were, she was not a normal human. She had the soul of a dragon for goodness sake, and as such she often felt when someone was wary. But she didn’t think much of it, assuming that her companion was simply dreading the road ahead or missing his alchemy shop, as she knew he did. It wasn’t until they bunkered down for the night several hours later that Wyn started to think there was more to his wariness than she thought.

Usually Quintus was pleased when they stopped to make camp. He was often relieved when he could dismount and stretch his sore body. And, of course, he was always happy to help her with the meal and more often than not slept as close to the fire as he could without burning his bedroll. Tonight, he did not looked pleased to get off his mount and his wariness seemed to have doubled the moment they stopped. And even though it was a rather chilly evening, he laid out his bedroll several feet away from the fire – and from her.

She wasn’t really offended by this, having never lacked self-confidence or felt the need to look too closely into other’s actions. But as the night wore on and they ate in stoic, stiff silence, she thought she ought to inquire into what was making him so skittish.

The first thing she could think to ask was, “Are you sore from riding? I think I have another potion if you’d like…” 

She was just about to reach for her pack to check when Quintus shook his head and muttered, “No, I’m fine.” 

Silence. Wyn withdrew her hand and took another bite of the smoked rabbit haunch they’d made for dinner. Quintus’s eyes watched every movement she made, noting the slow way she chewed and the muscles of her throat as she swallowed. He was being really…odd.

Perhaps any other person would dance around the subject and attempt at small talk, dodging around until an answer might be revealed. But Wyn didn’t enjoy such silly intricacies and didn’t think herself very good with words anyway. 

So after another minute of him staring at her eat, Wyn put down the rabbit and demanded, “What’s wrong, alchemist?” This was starting to get on her nerves.  
He jumped, startled, and immediately retreated. 

When he began to insist, “Nothing – “ Wyn stared at him with hard golden eyes and said, “I am neither stupid nor blind to the fact that something is troubling you. Tell me.”

Quintus was not good with secrets, not that he was keeping a secret mind you, it was merely speculation. But still, anything that required him to hold his tongue sent his head spinning. Perhaps the effect wouldn’t have been so great if it hadn’t been Wyn. But the glowing way her eyes pinned him down had him shifting uncomfortably, trying to come up with ways to disperse this awkward situation. He couldn’t think of anything, not one little thing, when she was looking at him like that.

“I noticed something today,” he blurted, then cringed, because what was he doing? Was he really going to speak his mind? What if he was wrong and he made an utter idiot of himself? And, even worse, what if he was right?

She raised an eyebrow and he knew he couldn’t turn back now. If only he was a better liar. If only her eyes weren’t so mesmerizing. 

Quintus swallowed and mumbled, “…You’re pale.” 

And then he blushed. So much for not making himself into a fool. He managed to do that even when he wasn’t trying.

Wyn hummed, obviously trying (and failing) to keep the amusement out of her voice. “Indeed,” she said dryly. 

Quintus sighed and slowly explained, “…You’re pale, you’ve got eyes that don’t seem…right. And you have this…enthralling…aura about you…like a vampire.” 

The last bit he said so quickly that his words seemed to melt together, but Wyn heard every syllable and felt everything fit into place. 

She stared at him blankly, but inside she was roiling with surprise and mirth that he would come up with something so, well, quite frankly it was ridiculous. And she showed him that moments later when suddenly her amusement burst out of her and she fell back to the ground with heaving, gasping laughter. Laughter that seemed to go on forever. Laughter that made Quintus feel very foolish indeed, and yet…yet also rather amazed, because her laughter was so beautiful. He watched her with cheeks blazing red. He was an idiot. He was even more of an idiot than he already knew. 

Wyn peered over at him, and the sight of his blush made her head drop back down as another wave of amusement hit her full force. She absolutely couldn’t help herself. She had been called many things, but a vampire was never one of them. With a chuckling sigh, she rolled herself onto one elbow and rested her chin in her hand, staring at him. 

And then suddenly all her amusement dropped away so quickly that it was like it was never there to begin with, and Wyn said darkly, “You’re very intuitive, alchemist. How did you know?”

And Quintus gave a little squeak that he would never ever admit to making (later on, that is, when they looked back on this situation years from now), and nearly fell back himself. Was she…was she serious?! Was she really a vampire – ?

Her expression cleared back into amusement and she tapped the side of her nose. Her voice was mirthful and teasing when she told him, “Kidding. I’m kidding. Don’t be so serious, Quintus.” 

She could almost see the relief fill him up, so much so that she gave another chuckle. He was just so endearing.

“That wasn’t funny!” he snapped, but couldn’t deny that it actually was rather comical. Well, the whole situation was, though mostly he just felt stupid. And then he felt elated, positively delighted, because that was when he realized that it was the very first time she had actually used his real name, and not some nickname or some such title, and he was very pleased by this.

She was still chuckling when she began eating her dinner again. “On the contrary, it was hilarious. Please let me know when you come up with any more of these fun speculations.” 

Yet a part of her did not find the situation as amusing as the rest of her, because what if one of those ideas was the very one she strived so hard to hide from him? That led her to another thought entirely: would now be a good time to tell him what she was? Because surely she’d have to tell him sometime before their quest was over. The last ingredient was found on the Throat of the World, where Paarthurnax happened to dwell. He would find out even if she didn’t tell him, it was inevitable.

“…Actually, there is something I should tell you…” she slowly said before she could stop herself. Her words were much more serious now and Quintus stared at her curiously, wondering if perhaps she would finally fill in the blanks of her personality. 

But she did not, because her courage faltered. All she said after that was a too-smooth, chuckling, “I am in fact part Khajiit.” 

And Quintus immediately rolled his eyes, because he knew for a fact that she was, in fact, nothing of the sort.

He grumbled at her beneath his breath as he adjusted his bedroll and laid down on it, rolling himself up and ignoring her amusement at his extent. And as Wyn slowly watched him drift off to sleep, she wondered not for the first time what his reaction would be if she told him that she was the Dragonborn. She wasn’t quite ready to find out.


	17. Dragon's Tongue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So guys, this one is unexpected for us all, but I hope you enjoy this chapter. I’ve been thinking about how I was gonna do this since chapter one, so hopefully it doesn’t disappoint!

Wyn was beginning to think that Mralki was wrong about the bandits when, lo and behold, they were attacked. It was close to evening and they had long since finished crossing the plains of Whiterun. Now, on the roughly cobbled Old Road, they had walked past the final mark of civilization (a farm), and had pushed off into the wild. That was when it happened.

The bandits were waiting at the edge of the road for travelers. Quintus would have blindly walked right into their arms had Wyn not stiffened in her saddle and stopped. Wondering what was wrong, he opened his mouth to inquire but abruptly stopped when her hand swiftly rose into the air, fingers splayed as she silently told him to be quiet. He snapped his mouth shut and waited, though for what he wasn’t sure.

Wyn lowered herself from the saddle just in time, for out of the dense foliage to their left sauntered a towering Nord carrying a rather lethal looking broadsword as if it was a twig. He was dressed as a bandit, in fur armor customary of vagabond Nords. It hardly did anything in way of protection, either from the edge of a weapon or the sharp sting of cold. But Nord’s were hardy, and the man looked as hot blooded as they came. A stark difference from Quintus’s slighter, shivering form. 

“Well, lookie here,” the Nord said with a laugh, his (rather impressive) bare chest puffing up as his diaphragm filled with air. He leered down at Wyn, who was short for a Nord. The way his eyes flashed over Wyn’s body had Quintus gritting his teeth angrily. There was only one thing on this bandit’s mind, and it was all too obvious.

The Nord flicked his gaze lazily to Quintus and, evidently not finding him to be much of a threat, returned them to Wyn with a callous, lecherous smile. 

“You look awful lonesome, traveling with that tiny man over there. How about you come back to my camp and I’ll give you a real good time?” There were several guffaws behind him, no doubt from the bandits that were still hidden in the foliage. A dangerous business, that. Wyn had a feeling all of those hidden bandits had arrows trained on them as a precautionary measure. Cowardly fools.

Quintus bristled in his saddle, offended of course at being called a tiny man, (the outrage!) but even more so at the callous innuendo the crushed through the man’s deep voice. How uncivilized! How crass! How –

“Alright then,” Wyn shrugged, glancing up at the big Nord with her usual bland smile. Except this time it looked…well it looked flirtatious, and Quintus gaped in shock. Shock that quickly turned to confusion. She wasn’t seriously considering letting those bandits have their way with her? He hadn’t known her for terribly long, but he knew she had more honor than that.

The bandit looked rather surprised himself, no doubt being used to a more forceful approach when it came to women. His eyes narrowed in suspicion (perhaps he wasn’t as stupid as he looked) but otherwise gave no hint of knowing what was going on. Only Wyn seemed to really know, and she wasn’t giving anything away.  
“Well. It’s awful considerate of you,” the bandit said, scratching his head, “Most of the time women ain’t so willing, you know.” 

Wyn nearly rolled her eyes at the imbecile.

“I wonder why,” she dryly responded, turning deliberately to the right so that she was facing Quintus. 

The poor, confused Imperial sat unmoving on his horse, unsure if he would be more useless on the ground or in his saddle. Her golden eyes caught his very quickly and then darted at the foliage. The movement was so calculated that he knew immediately she was trying to tell him something. When she did it again, faster this time, Quintus had a feeling he understood. His chin dipped down ever so slightly and he saw her shoulders relax some.

Bandits in the foliage, hmm? So that was why she was being so accepting about the situation. Well he didn’t like it one bit, even if there were a dozen arrows drawn and aimed at them this very moment.

But Wyn didn’t seem to even care. She allowed her sword to be unbuckled by the rather handsy bandit. Quintus almost growled at the display. The only thing that stopped him was the hard look Wyn sent him over the bandit’s shoulder. Still, his hands were tight in his reins and for the first moment in his entire life, he wished he was a warrior. Wished he could protect her from this entire situation. Because if he was a warrior he’d have gutted this crass bandit the moment he so much as looked at Wyn wrong – nevermind the men in the underbrush, he would have found a way to deal with them too no doubt. Warriors always found a way.

As it was though, Quintus was no warrior. The weapon at his side was more for show than anything else, though Wyn had been teaching him several moves in case an emergency came up. But he couldn’t do anything now. All he could do was uselessly sit in his saddle and grit his teeth as he watched Wyn’s weapons come away one after the other. What on earth were they to do now that the only warrior in their little misfit band was weaponless?

The bandit chuckled and wrapped an arm around Wyn’s slender waist, pressing her against his side. She didn’t fight him. Didn’t do much of anything except stare straight ahead with her usual indifferent countenance. He often admired her ability to lock her emotions away in the heat of battle, but this was a little too much to witness, even for him.

“Oi! Get this one off ‘is horse,” the bandit leader shouted, and then he mockingly stretched out his hand, gesturing for Wyn to walk forward. Together, they strolled into the forest as if they were lovers. Quintus thought he wouldn’t be too far from that particular mark, if they didn’t do something soon. 

He was heaved from his horse by two rather unsightly fellows. One had an eye patch tied over his left eye, complete with a jagged scar that traveled nearly the entire length of his face from hairline to chin. The other was normal looking but in terrible need of a bath and several other more gentlemanly amenities. (A shave most certainly wouldn’t go amiss.) In any case, he definitely got the worst of the liter, and was dragged from the saddle with an outraged exclamation that went entirely overlooked.

The dragging didn’t stop there. Not having been born as a pretty, delicate woman (though delicacy was perhaps something he did have), Quintus was immediately put in ropes and forced into the treeline, the steady clop of their horses following. The steeds were impressively bred after all, and no self respected bandit would ever even consider letting them go. That is, if self respected bandits even existed. It was a question Quintus wasn’t all that interested in finding the answer to.

About a quarter of a mile into the forest, the bandit’s camp was splayed comfortably, hidden by the trees. The sight of it was completely concealed from the road, even though a roaring fire had been built and there was a rather pleased guffawing of bandits. Quintes was forced against a tree, a bit removed from the center of the camp. He saw that Wyn was sitting right up near the fire, stretching her hands out to the flames with such a comfortable camaraderie that it seemed to him that she was sitting at home and not a bandit camp, awaiting a thorough defilement. 

And there was nothing he could do, he thought in horror. The eye patched bandit had tied him roughly to the tree and there was no getting out of it himself. He was as useless as ever. Once again he trembled for his shop in Windhelm, wishing he had never come along on this terrible quest. 

If he had known that this would happen, the worst kind of assault, and that he would have to watch it all unravel without being able to do one damn thing…no, there was no way he would have agreed to come along. And yet he knew it was too late. Whether he agreed or not, he was stuck in this mess and he would take responsibility of the repercussions like the civilized, honorable Imperial he happened to be.

The men were gathered around the fire and Wyn, exchanged none too subtle looks, as if they were about to have a feast or a celebration of some kind. It was repulsive to think that anyone could be so contemptible as this, and yet here were a dozen men who were. And the dozen of them looked equally as shameless about it.

“Never had one come willingly before,” one of the bandits said, peering down at Wyn’s chest with a lecherous eye. Not that it did any good, for armor didn’t allow much in the way of seduction. It must have merely been the knowledge of what lay beneath that made the men eager. Fresh meat, as it were. Quintus growled.

“Guess she was lonely traveling with that one,” one of them jeered, sending a thumb in his direction. The men laughed and Quintus felt his cheeks explode with red, the shame of the situation curdling through his stomach. 

He frowned mightily when he heard one of them snicker, “Not terribly shocking, that. Looks like he can’t even pick up a sword.” 

Oh very mature, making fun of the well bred merchant. Warriors were so predictable, always scorning anything that looked even remotely weaker than themselves.

Another round of jeering laughter, and Wyn sat back, having warmed her fingers considerably and being quite done listening to them making fun of her alchemist – because she was the only one who got to do that, and listening to anyone else take the privilege from her made her very angry. Angrier than she already was, perhaps, and that was saying quite a lot.

With a catty, almost wicked smile, Wyn leaned back with a sigh, “Actually he’s quite good.” 

And in utter shock, every single person in the campsite turned to stare at her. Quintus gaped and blushed bright crimson, for he’d never heard a woman speak of him in such a manner and…and he actually didn’t mind it. Regardless of the fact that they had never lain together before. He was a gentleman thank you very much!

“Wha?” the bandits blustered, and turned to eye Quintus as if he had suddenly become the bane of their existence. He swallowed under the stares, for they were staring at certain parts of his anatomy that made him quite uncomfortable, as if trying to measure his worth as men were apt to do. It took every single ounce of his willpower not to slam his legs together. God his blush was never going to go away.

“But,” Wyn mused a moment later, chewing over her words, “…I reckon I’ve never had a big, brawny, wild bandit before.” The smile she sent the leader would’ve made the most emotionless man melt, and Quintus was shocked to feel jealousy rear within him. He was surprised at himself for feeling such emotion. What on earth did it mean? That he wanted for her to smile in such a way at him? Or was it merely some manly instinct playing on his nerves, whispering that he could be just as good as any brawny, muscled warrior? Because he knew how to give as well as take, and warriors only took without thought of consequence.

In any case, the leader quite liked those words. He leaned forward and reached out, fingers arching for her face…and in return, Wyn’s hand darted to his wrist, twisted it, and snapped the bone in such an easy manner that Quintus couldn’t look away. The sound of the leader’s agonized holler had every single bandit jumping up, weapons at the ready. Wyn merely brushed her hand against her black cloak and proceeded to untie it. 

The heavy swatch of fabric dropped to her feet, just in time for the leader to yell an incensed, “GET HER!” And thus began a fight that Quintus would never in his life forget.

Warriors fought with swords or axes, he always thought. But then in that case, Wyn must’ve been more than mere warrior, for she was fighting now with bare hands. And how she fought. Every twist was graceful but powerful and so very inspiring. 

He felt numb as he watched the battle unravel, as if he were hovering above the scene instead. His eyes did not move from Wyn. It was as if his sight was glued to her lithe form, watching the complicated footwork and the quick, sudden movements with awed eyes. Perhaps this was what a true warrior was, he thought. For she was lethal even without her sword. Her body itself was a weapon, and it was a sight to behold.

She ducked out of the way of flying blades, kicked an axe from a bandit’s hold, and then reached forward to grasp the end of it. Her breathing had hardly even shifted. She was used to fighting. Used to the adrenaline and the excitement of clanging metal and burnished steel. And how she loved it. How it made her soul sear for blood, for power and domination. Her golden eyes burned too, so wild and so unsteady that she swore she could see every shadow and every twist of emotion. Fear was beginning to weave its way through the air and she reveled in it. 

“Did you think I’d let you touch me?” she laughed, ducking a swinging blade. The next moment she was skewering the man who wielded it, burying her axe so deeply into the chest cavity that blood sprayed over her. A gurgle of death resounded through the clearing, one of many, and she didn’t even blink as she set her foot against the body and tore the weapon free. Her eyes were wilder, more bloodthirsty, even crazy perhaps. A sliver of insanity had taken hold of her but she didn’t care. She could barely even remember that Quintus was watching, mouth wide open in shock. She couldn’t remember anything but the fight, the glory of death, the singing of her soul as it merged into the form of a dragon – beautiful and savage and ruthless.

And she was suddenly that dragon. It was such a subtle shift that she hardly even realized it was happening. The bloodthirst went to her head, made her incredibly numb to the world around her. She saw only red. Only the sight and sound of death and the way she wanted to deal it. 

And perhaps that was what made her lose her head. Perhaps that was what had her growling, **“Zu'u fen krii hi pah.”**

She walked forward and snarled, brutally swinging the blade into a bandit’s stomach and watching him gasp and fall, clutching the deadly wound with shaking fingers. The next moment her blade was coming down on his neck, severing it from his body in one clean, powerful move.

**“Hi fen motaad us zey. Fah Zu'u los Dovahkiin.”**

And then in a surging, sudden movement, Wyn’s feet planted themselves firmly on the ground, and she leaned forward, and her eyes connected with the bandit leader through the haze of their bloody battle. And if the poor bandit hadn’t yet realized who, exactly, he was dealing with, he certainly did then. Because it was at that moment when Wyn drew a deep breath and shouted, “Fus Ro Dah!”

And with wide, stricken eyes Quintus watched the bandit leader get blown away by sheer force, throwing him hard against the trunk of a tree and breaking his body. He tumbled to the ground in a heap of useless limbs, still breathing but barely, and Wyn stalked forward to give him a gruesome death. 

Gruesome it was, and the terrified scream of the bandit rang in Quintus’s ear as he stared. She was Wyn no longer. She was Dragonborn. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh or cry or merely lay tied to that tree for the rest of eternity and do neither.

And then Wyn, the Dragonborn, slowly turned in a circle, assessing her work with those bright glowing dragon eyes – and landed on Quintus. He stared, trembling against the tree. For her eyes had narrowed again and her grip tightened on the war axe she still wielded. She appeared not to remember him at all, as if the Wyn he knew was stuck within her somewhere, not caring enough to come back out. Typical, Quintus morosely thought, as he watched the bloodlust come trickling back.

She took a step toward him, then stopped. Took another. Stopped. It rather seemed as if she was having some sort of battle in her head, not quite remembering who he was and if she should kill him or not. It was quite frankly terrifying, watching her eyes harden then soften then harden again as she assessed and reassessed the situation. And all he could do was watch, stare at her in silence, numb with the disbelief of awareness. For she was the Dragonborn and that changed absolutely everything.

Her jaw worked, her eyes furious. And then suddenly she pushed one foot back and heaved her axe up over her shoulder, aiming it right at him. The weapon came sailing through the air and Quintus shuddered out his last breath, waiting for the impact of the blade to hit him in the chest. Yet all that happened was the sudden loosening of the rope around him, and when he warily opened his eyes, the axe was sticking out of the tree directly to his left. Freeing him.

He turned his eyes to Wyn and didn’t move. She had turned away from him, uncaring of the fact that she could have just killed him, and that this was the second time she had done something so crass. She had turned to the fire and was standing there quietly, brooding at the flame. Long minutes passed with only the crackle of the fire for company. They passed those minutes in utter silence, the bodies of the dead bandits strewn almost artistically around the camp. The Dragonborn dealt death as an art. The evidence lay around him now.

And then suddenly Wyn turned again, shifting around to face him slowly, and raising her eyes to his as if looking carefully at a wild animal. But she was the only wild animal in that clearing, and they both seemed to know it. 

Her eyes glowed less and the bloodthirst had drained from her body, yet still she stood tall and proud in the flickering light of that fire. The sight was startling in its potency, but even more startling was the softened way she looked at him, as if she was silently trying to apologize but wouldn’t put that apology to words.

“Come along, alchemist,” she said then, as if everything was back to normal. As if she hadn’t just revealed to him that she was the fabled Dragonborn of legend, the hero that everyone was talking about, who had claimed Alduin’s soul for her own and rode the backs of dragons and did a great many other things, too, that made Quintus shake just to think about.

She reached for her cloak and swung it on, clasped it, and reached for her weapons. When she began to walk to where their horses had been tied, and when she pulled herself up into her saddle, she raised a careless eyebrow at him and said sternly, “Unless you’d like to sleep in the midst of death tonight, I believe we should keep going. We have an hour, perhaps, before full darkness descends.”

Quintus stood silent for a very long moment. He hardly remembered hurrying to get on his horse as Wyn pulled hers away. He hardly remembered traveling for another hour, hardly remembered setting their camp up nearby a river, or the way Wyn immediately went to wash the blood off her armor. And all he could think of that long, long night was those last words of hers, and how he wondered if perhaps she had already made the descent into a darkness of her own make, pure and true, where no light could find her. Not even his.

For he had seen the insanity in her eyes, and to say it terrified him was putting it very lightly indeed.

**~ Translations ~**   
**“Zu'u fen krii hi pah.” … I will kill you all**   
**“Hi fen motaad us zey. Fah Zu'u los Dovahkiin, Ahrk hi los lir.” … You will tremble before me. For I am Dragonborn.**


	18. Fire Salts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I borrowed Haldir’s line in this one. I couldn’t resist ;)

Wyn wasn’t very good at this. _This_ being friendship. And…well, having actual emotions and the desire for conversation too. More often than not, she hardly even noticed emotions, both hers and those in her company, but it was rather difficult to not notice Quintus’s. Even though she noticed them didn’t mean she felt obligated to do anything about it though.

Her blankness was a go-to front she automatically pulled on whenever she was confused. And she definitely was confused, because Quintus wasn’t acting at all like she thought he would. He wasn’t freaking out. He wasn’t treating her any differently than he normally did…except of course for the blanket of silence he sent her way whenever she said or did anything. It was a tiny bit infuriating. Why couldn’t he just _yell_ at her? Why did he have to stay so _quiet?_

That morning had been one of the strangest mornings Wyn had ever lived through. Perhaps it would be more apt to say ‘survived through’, for Quintus’s stony silence had been the main cause for the awkwardness. Wyn herself had acted totally normal and had given absolutely no cause for concern. She’d left Quintus to cook breakfast while she planned out their journey for the day, and then ordered them to pack up. It was normal. It was also damned weird.

She tried to remember if it had felt this way before, when she journeyed with other people who knew of her identity. She didn’t think it had been. So what was wrong with him and why did he feel the need to parade his angry feelings around so blatantly…and yet be so subtle about it all? She would never understand merchants. Or Imperials.

After suffering through the rest of the morning and dealing with his silence, Wyn soon settled down into a silence of her own. She pulled the curtain to her emotions, sitting colder in her saddle, and decided that it was probably better this way. 

Though she hadn’t exactly planned on losing control, she’d been contemplating heavily over how to tell him of her peculiar birthright. Well now she didn’t have to bother with words. She was never very good with such silly things anyway. Leave eloquent speeches to the bards; she was quite good at eloquence of a more bloodthirsty nature. And so it was that the two of them turned to stone and stayed that way for about half the day.

It was around noon when everything started to boil over. Wyn was starving and had been for a while now, because she had hurried her way through the awkward breakfast that morning. She had no idea if Quintus was hungry but she decided to stop anyway. Let him follow suit if he wanted, and if not let him starve. She cared not.

“Hungry?” she asked, reining her horse in and dismounting. They were near a thicket of trees and it was cold. They were close to the mountains now and there was a thick blanket of snow covering everything in sight. Quintus was shivering in his thick fur cloak and Wyn was of course annoyingly warm due to her Nord blood. 

He’d been grudgingly noting that all morning and had added it to his list of frustrations, which had by the way grown extremely long at this point. Her calm hollowness about the whole situation was only fueling his displeasure.

He didn’t say anything. He watched her from his saddle, noted the way she stretched and walked around a bit. Her gait was just as smooth as the rest of her, as if spending all day in the saddle hadn’t impaired her in the slightest. Stupid warriors and their stupid capacity for uncomfortable things. When she pulled out a bottle of Nord mead and took a few swigs with that infuriating sereneness, Quintus gritted his teeth. For someone who was supposed to be the hero of Skyrim, she was exceedingly dense.

“Here,” she said, handing him the bottle. Typical, Quintus thought. Only a brutish warrior would think that alcohol solved every problem. He turned his chin and ignored the outstretched offering, instead settling for some water from his skin. He watched her from the corner of his eye, furious when even his obvious slight seemed to hardly upset her. She merely shrugged and brought the bottle back to her lips, tipping it up and finishing it off. 

“Not one for mead, alchemist? It’s a wonder how you’ve survived Skyrim.” 

His anger was escalating very quickly and she didn’t even seem to notice.

She did in fact notice, but noticing and acting were two very different things, and Wyn wasn’t very good at the latter. Emotions were not her forte. She was practically emotionally impaired. She just didn’t understand them.

Leaning against her horse, Wyn surveyed the barren landscape. It was rather like her, Quintus decided grumpily. Cold, insensitive, and aloof to everything around it. Uncaring about its travelers and a great many other things too.

“I think we should get the mammoth tusk powder using stealth. No use getting into unnecessary trouble with giants. Too cold to properly wield a sword anyhow,” she added tranquilly, as if commenting on some mundane subject that no one cared about. Well Quintus hardly cared about swords or wielding them, and he certainly wouldn’t care if her fingers froze off while she was trying. Warriors. Damnable creatures.

“Are you planning on staying silent all day, alchemist?” she suddenly asked, blinking at him, and he grumbled a little beneath his breath. To his utter shock, she laughed and responded to his mutters as if she’d heard them quite clearly – and he wondered suddenly if she had. 

“I’m afraid that’s out of the question,” she said cheekily, in response to his mumbled, supposedly silent words. He tried to push down the mortification that she had heard him, and quite clearly at that. She deserved it, he told himself, despite the fact that his mumbles were less than gentlemanly.

Still, her eyes blazed with that snowy winter even as her cheeks uplifted into a smirk, and she added, “…Though dying out here would certainly be a shame, would it not? Buried for an eternity in snow…mmm, not a very honorable way to go.” 

This time he held back his mutters regarding honor and her, which he hardly thought fit very well into one sentence.

“Well have it your own way then,” she sighed with a shrug, and then proceeded to swing up into her saddle with an ease that always surprised him to witness…and annoyed him too. Why was she so good at everything? Oh right, it was because she was the _Dragonborn._

Wyn clucked her horse into a walk and Quintus stonily followed, hardly able to keep the sneer from his face. He fell into step behind her, as he’d been doing all morning, and they continued on into the desolate barren land bereft of life. Quite fitting indeed.

He would not say one word, he told himself. Not a single word. And he was doing a very good job of it, but alas it could not last. The sun set quickly up here and several hours later a thin veil of darkness covered the land. It was here that Wyn stopped, pulling her horse up and then leading the animal to a couple of pine trees just off the road, which could barely be seen in all the snow.

“The giant camp is up ahead,” was all she said in way of explanation. Quintus dismounted too and followed, face carefully blank. They were both carefully blank, and it was a rather odd sight. But they trudged together toward the rocky camp anyway, not commenting on the absurdity of the situation, for neither thought it was very absurd at that moment.

Wyn had half a mind to tell Quintus to stay back with their horses. The whole ordeal felt very haphazard and not well planned. Giants were no easy target and Quintus wasn’t exactly battle ready, but it was so _awkward,_ and she couldn’t bring herself to say even one word to him. So silence it was, broken only by the fierce and noisy wind.

She’d brought her bow with her, an ebony masterpiece that looked particularly lethal. Quintus had never seen her use it yet, but the way she held it hinted at her aptitude. Not that he was surprised, for warriors often had a wide range of skills when it came to killing things. Cue the sarcasm.

He followed Wyn’s example as she snuck down into a crouch, pausing behind a tall rock to peer at the camp before them. It was nice and rocky here, good for sneaking with relatively few snowdrifts to hinder the way. There were mammoths a ways out, but not close enough to be concerned over. One giant stood by the massive fire, leaning on a club the length of Wyn’s entire body and staring up at the constellations with a soft eye. 

It was oddly peaceful, and that surprised Quintus, for it was his first time seeing a giant. He always thought them to be brutish fellows who could sniff people out in seconds. This one just seemed lethargic and bored. 

“That must be the powder,” Wyn whispered, eyes trained on a little white bowl of some concoction. They were too far away to actually see it but she’d never seen anything else quite like it in giant camps, and she’d been to her fair share of them. With her bow strapped to her back to use only for emergencies, Wyn shuffled out of her hiding place and started for the powder…only to frown when she felt Quintus follow.

“Stay here,” she hissed, sending him a stern look that she hoped might put an end to his behavior. 

But he only scowled, not interested in being put down, and muttered, “No way! _You_ wouldn’t know it that’s actually the powder – I need to get a good look at it first.” 

He growled something about warriors and their ineptitude with delicate matters like alchemy and Wyn rolled her eyes.

“Just stay here, alchemist. This is a _giant camp_ if you hadn’t noticed, and you step so loudly I could shoot you in dark.” She tapped the bow to annunciate her words and his scowl darkened at the obvious brush off.

“Don’t call me that,” he snapped, “my name is _Quintus._ I know warriors such as yourself have limited intelligence but – “

“Shhh!” Wyn hissed, slapping a hand over his mouth as she watched the giant shift, looking around in confusion. Those eyes were soft no longer, hardened as they were with suspicion. They were being too loud.

Quintus glared, trying to loosen the hand at his mouth. His fury was quickly spilling over into levels unknown. The silence of the day was coming back at him, disrupting his anger and displacing it. He felt it jolt inside him, splashing the sides of his control, and in an irate voice he exclaimed, “Let go of me!” 

And then proceeded to topple over as Wyn pushed him rather hurriedly aside, all too aware of the giant’s gaze. They’d been seen.

“Talos take you!” Wyn snarled at Quintus, angrier than she’d ever been towards him before. Her bow was useless now. Fortunately she’d come with her broadsword as well, but she hardly had time to so much as draw it before the giant yelled madly and swung the massive club into the ground beside her. She spun and began to maneuver the giant away from a sprawled, defenseless Quintus, but apparently her luck had run dry. The giant seemed to think that the alchemist would make for a nicer meal when all this fighting business was over.

Her throat was still sore from using her Voice the day before, but that didn’t stop her now. Sore throat be damned, she thought as she was brushed easily aside. The giant was fixated on her alchemist – and no one but her was allowed that right. 

“Get away from him!” she snarled, raising her sword and swinging the edge of her blade into the giant’s leg. His skin was thick but it still hurt, and the beast howled in pain and the blood gushed down his leg. Angry eyes were turned on her (two pairs to be specific) and Wyn scowled. This was ridiculous. This was so utterly ridiculous – 

The giant roared, doubled its club back, and aimed for Quintus. Defenseless Quintus. Ridiculousness aside, Wyn didn’t know what made her do what she did then. For it was not anger than made her jump haphazardly in the direction of that club. She didn’t know what it was, actually, only that it made her heart burn like fire.

Quintus watched the scene as if it was playing out in slow motion before his eyes. One moment he was squinting up at the giant, facing the surety of death…and then suddenly Wyn was yelling and jumping in front of the club. And the attack that was meant for him landed on her. Right in the stomach, with such force that her breath was completely knocked out of her.

She gasped and fell, toppling over onto the ground, her face pale and sounding like she was suffocating. 

“Wyn!” he exclaimed, and his anger utterly left his body. He caught her, cradled her against him, hand fluttering over her stomach as she curled in on herself. That stroke was hard enough to shatter ribs, he thought morosely. The thought couldn’t be continued though, not yet.

The giant was growling again and they were going to die, sure as day. Quintus wasn’t ready to die, but if he had to go then at least it was in the throes of this quest for the betterment of alchemy. And in the throes of her arms, a smaller, quieter part of him whispered. He was closing his eyes upon the impending promise of death when suddenly he was surprised yet again, for the body in his arms struggled. He watched in shock as Wyn sat up, forced air into her tattered body, and Shouted. 

The force of said Shout must have cost her, for the moment the loud, **“Yor Tool Shul!”** passed her lips, she cried out and fell back against him.

But it worked, amazingly. The giant screeched as fire consumed it, and even though it wasn’t nearly enough to kill the beast, it was enough to stun it temporarily. 

Wyn pushed Quintus back, grunting, “The powder, go!” And when he didn’t immediately move for fear of her injuries, she gasped, “Go and get it, alchemist!”

It wasn’t until he was running, scooping the little bowl up in his hands, that Quintus realized she’d called him ‘alchemist’ and that he didn’t have a problem with it.  
With a grumble he turned back and ran to her side. His legs felt like jelly and his insides twisted with fear, because the sight of her lying on the ground clutching her stomach was a bit worrying. 

If she died he would be all alone in this terrible cold land, and he very much doubted he’d be able to find his way back to Windhelm by himself. He hardly even knew where they were – but the majority of his concerns lay with those injuries and the idea of death itself. Dragonborn and legendary hero aside, he had become quite fond of the Nord woman. Though his anger at this moment forced all other emotions into faded, incoherent and unrecognizable slivers.

Tucking the powder hastily into the innermost pocket of his tunic, Quintus hastened back to her side. 

“Careful, careful now…” he muttered as he wrapped an arm around her and helped her to her feet. 

He’d seen her in worst conditions and wasn’t too worried, at least not to the point of hopelessness, but the giant…well, the giant was currently busy putting out the fire that had caught on his garbled fur clothing. It would be back soon enough.

The sight of that giant rolling around in the snow would make him laugh later on, when safety had wrapped them both in its embrace, but at the moment it was quite a daunting thing to witness. Wyn leaned against him and he hobbled away from the camp as quickly as he could manage, for she was heavier than he’d thought for such a small Nord, and he was not awfully strong either.

“The horses…” Wyn gasped, still struggling to breathe. Their steeds were tied to the trees about a quarter of a mile away, and that was a frightful distance when one had an irritable, singed giant at their backs. The snow was tall, too, and though they had already forged a path through it upon their first passing, it was difficult to maneuver. Especially with a heavy Nord hanging off him, outfitted as she was in thick armor.

“They’re just over there,” Quintus heard himself say. He hardly felt present. He felt more like a ghost watching the events from several yards above, laughing down at their absurd predicament. Behind them the giant let out an infuriated roar and the ground shook. Not a good sign. He didn’t dare glance over his shoulder. 

“We’ll be fine…” 

Oh Gods please let them be fine.

The horses were prancing around in the snow when they finally reached them, their ears twitching and hooves pawing at the ground as if they knew the danger that was heading toward them. Quintus hurried to get Wyn to her horse’s side, and luckily she was recovered enough to pull herself onto her saddle. He didn’t think he’d be able to help her with that. He could barely get onto his _own_ saddle after all, especially with all the fright that jolted through his system now.

But Wyn looked as composed as ever, if not a little shook up from the blow to her stomach. She gripped the reins hard, waited until Quintus had stumbled up onto his own horse (a difficult feat as said horse was still prancing around impatiently), and then she turned and yelled, “Let’s get out of this accursed place!” 

He couldn’t be more willing to follow her in that moment, past anger aside.


	19. Honeycomb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for the kudos and reviews, guys! They mean the world to me :)

The horses bolted. The giant was still far away but the beasts could run fast. Luckily not fast enough to catch up to two very frightened horses though. On and on they ran, snow kicked up in their wake as the steeds whinnied and surged back in the direction they’d come. It wasn’t for another half an hour that they began to slow down, the danger long behind. Giants didn’t stray far from their camps, no matter how furious they were or how precious powdered mammoth tusk powder happened to be.

As soon as the horses slowed to a trot, Wyn began to laugh. It hurt her sides to do so, and in such an uproarious way, but her amusement knew no bounds. The utter idiocy of their little side mission was finally getting to her and she couldn’t help it. Quintus even let loose a chuckle or two, shaking his head as he clung to his horse. 

“Did you see that giant’s face when I sent fire at him?!” she gasped, her laughter trickling over the snow covered lands, only to be swallowed up by the ever present wind. 

“I’ve never seen something so hilarious – rolling in the snow – oh Talos, that is a story I will most certainly remember years from now.” 

Her amusement was causing stitches to form in her sides but she couldn’t stop it. Quintus, ever observant especially when it came to her, definitely noticed though.

“Yes yes,” he said impatiently, pulling his horse to a stop. He saw a little clearing not far from the road and nodded at it, “Let’s rest there a while. Your wounds need tending if we’re to make it any farther.” 

That certainly shut her up. She looked over at him with a frown and stubbornly said, “I’m perfectly fine! Certainly capable of spending several more hours in a saddle at least.” 

Though evening was thicker now, blanketing around them gently, she wanted to put more distance between the giant and themselves just in case the beast did decide to follow them. It had been pretty angry when they’d left after all.

Quintus was in no way a healer, but he knew enough about the healing arts to know that she was outright lying. Even if she was a Nord and a Dragonborn to boot, he could tell that she was uncomfortable. At least wrapping her stomach tightly would give him some peace of mind, if only to make sure she didn’t randomly die from the pain any time soon. Being stranded out here alone did not sit well with him. And damn it he was _worried!_ (And still angry for that matter, now that the fear was draining away.)

“I would like to stretch my legs anyway,” he said, just as stubbornly. Nords weren’t the only people who could be persistent. And so without waiting for her to complain anymore (he knew she was about to), he turned his horse to the clearing and all but sighed in relief when the thicket of trees offered some protection from the wind. 

She followed unhappily, with a frown that looked rather out of place on her normally smooth features. Stubborn indeed, Quintus mused with a raised brow. And probably not used to being tended to for that matter, if her sharp, unwilling motions had anything to say on the matter.

They dismounted. This time her movements from the saddle to the ground were much more shaky, and did not have the practiced and confident air about them as they usually did. Quintus enjoyed that, just a little bit. Even though she was injured and he didn’t like that, he definitely appreciated the reminder that she was still human. 

She was human, wasn’t she? Actually now that he thought about it, he wasn’t entirely sure. Well at least he knew she wasn’t a vampire and wouldn’t drain his blood while he slept.

“Sit down,” he said shortly, gesturing at a fallen log that would make a decent seat.  
She didn’t. She merely crossed her arms and looked around, noting at the ground that could clearly be seen through the snow. It wasn’t a terrible place to make camp, though she still thought it a little too close to the giant’s dwelling for comfort. 

Still, night was falling quickly, and with it came all manner of other dangers, just as bad as giants when one was unprepared and wandering. They would sleep here, then, and they would need a fire.

“I’ll get some firewood,” she said, ignoring his demand. She wasn’t used to taking demands, especially not from _merchants._ She knew her own body quite well thank you very much and knew its limitations – 

“Talos,” she groaned as she leaned over to collect some fallen branches. Her middle felt like it had been trampled on by several heavily armored trolls.

Quintus rolled his eyes and snapped, “Sit down, you stubborn Nord!” 

He didn’t care when her eyes darkened, didn’t care that she looked upset. All he cared about was making sure she wasn’t going to die on him. And besides, he was still furious at her. And he didn’t care that she was the Dragonborn either. Stupid illustrious title. She’d be no more than dust in the ground if she didn’t take care of herself!

This time Wyn listened, mostly because she was still shocked that he had spoken to her that way. It was unsettling and _wonderful,_ and for some reason she felt warm and that was strange, because by all rights she should be annoyed that he was being so fantastically disparaging. But she was just surprised, and not really upset, because perhaps it meant that he didn’t care who and what she was – and, well, that would be quite wonderful indeed.

She sat. Quintus felt mildly pleased at this small victory. He knew plenty about lighting fires even though he hadn’t had much practice lately, but after about ten minutes of working in silence, he managed to get one started in the center of their little clearing. It was a rather pathetic flame but he was pleased with it, and began to set their camp up around it.

As he unwrapped the medicines and wrestled his alchemy satchel from his pack, Quintus sat beside Wyn and gestured ambiguously at her armor. 

“Take that off,” he muttered, feeling too blankly angry to be embarrassed. Any other time he might have been, especially when he watched in fascination as she huffed but obeyed. 

Her fingers were very fast, and sped over each buckle with a know-how that hinted she had worn this armor many times. The thick black cloak fell aside, followed by the gauntlets. She undid the front buckles but when she went to deal with the ones at her side, she grunted and fumbled. It hurt to turn even a little bit. 

Quintus brushed her fingers aside and shook his head, sighing in what he hoped was an annoyed manner. He wanted to feel annoyed. He wanted to be angry with her and he was…but she was hurt and it was a little bit difficult to be truly mad. The ordeal with the giant had softened his fury, molded it into what was now a resigned sort of pride that he wasn’t really sure what to do with.

“Let me do it,” he said when she tried to brush his own fingers aside. 

The anger in his eyes looked real enough at least, and Wyn frowned and let him. She felt very much out of her depth. This kind of thing rarely happened, and never had she felt quite as weak as she did now. Past injuries aside, having Quintus hovering over her, insisting that he’d tend to her wounds…well, it made even her heart feel weak. And tattered, and rugged in her chest, like it was trying to beat its way out of her throat. 

The last buckle was undone and he cleared his throat, for he felt that this moment was more intimate than he’d thought it would be. But it had to be done, and it wasn’t like this was the first time after all. He had done the very same thing months before when she had come stumbling into his shop with deadly poison lingering in her bloodstream. 

And yet this was different, because now he knew her, felt more for her than simply a startling desire to keep her alive. He wasn’t sure exactly why his head pounded as it did, or why he felt unnaturally warm in all this cold, but he knew very well that it had something to do with her. That frightened him, and so he turned his fright inward, to anger.

Wyn sighed, glad to be rid of the constricting armor even at the cost of her pride. But she happened to have a lot of said pride, and enough to cover her now even with a portion of it missing. 

She also knew that a great many things had been left unsaid between them, and so as Quintus pulled the last of her chest armor away, she muttered, “You have many things to say to me, alchemist. Perhaps we should take a moment to address them.” 

It was so calmly, candidly spoken that Quintus raised his eyebrows.

Annoyance entered his gaze and he turned his eyes to her tunic. He was glad of his anger now, glad especially because it replaced the nervousness he would have felt otherwise. He remained stoically silent as he lifted the tunic to just below her breasts and exposed the bruised skin. 

He was obviously chewing over his words, and Wyn allowed him to do so. She wouldn’t push the matter. In any case, she was a little busy gaping down at her stomach to even consider doing so.

Bruised would be a simple and general term for the sight of her abdomen. It felt more broken than bruised, and in fact she was well aware that it was broken. In several spots. Quintus knew this too.

“…Three broken ribs,” he muttered, ignoring for now the anger and the words that were building on his tongue. He would deal with her injuries first before he would lash out. It would give him more time to think over his words anyway, to tailor them just right. 

So instead of addressing the rather large elephant between them, as it were, he merely pressed two fingers very lightly against her skin. He didn’t blush. He would’ve before, but not now. His mind was transfixed with healing techniques, roots that might be found nearby, the stores of plants he had brought along that would help lessen the pain. He was glad that he had brought that extra wheat and mountain flower concoction. It was a very basic treatment but one of the best when it came to relieving bodily pain.

Muttering to himself, he turned to the alchemy satchel he’d packed and began searching through it. She watched silently, barely flinching at the cold even as it seeped into her skin. He pulled out a health potion and uncorked it, handing it to her without glancing up. 

With a stubborn sigh she took it and upended the contents into her mouth, quietly relieved at the immediately healing properties that came with it. Warmth fizzled over her and she leaned back, tilting her head back and looking up into the branches overhead. Stars faintly twinkled between the trees.

Quintus remained silent as well as he patched her up, first administering a healing salve over her warm skin and then applying a tight bandage around her midsection.  
As he was tying it up, she said, “Aren’t you going to yell at me or something? I was rather prepared for it you know. Your silence is a bit unsettling.” 

And it was, firstly because it brought with it a level of intimacy that she was unaccustomed to feeling, and secondly because she could practically feel his annoyance burning between them, itching to be let loose. 

Her words were the catalyst, it seemed, to doing just that, and with an angry tch, Quintus said, “Perhaps that’s why I _haven’t_ spoken yet, because I know how uncomfortable it makes you.” 

Huh. She hadn’t thought of that. Nords spoke first and thought later. She wasn’t programmed to act differently and hadn’t thought that he was. She knew enough about Imperials to know that they tended to stew in their emotions, but it had been a while since she’d met an angry one and wasn’t prepared for the consequences.

“Now that that’s finished,” Quintus muttered with a fierce frown, “I think it’s about time to say this: you had absolutely no right to take advantage of my…my shortsightedness regarding your true identity – and I _don’t appreciate_ being taken advantage of!”

He surged to his feet and began pacing, and Wyn knew that his anger had peaked, and he was quickly losing control of it. It was a fascinating sight. She leaned forward to watch.

“And while we’re at it, I also disagree with your entire plan regarding this quest!” he burst out, turning to face her with surprisingly wild eyes. 

She had never seen that wilderness in his countenance. It was attractive. He burned with a heat that made her ache almost. A strange reaction but not an unpleasant one. But she was obviously the only one who thought so. 

“Oh?” she wondered, eyebrows raised as she watched him pace. “What about my plans do you disagree with?” Curious. Quite curious.

Quintus glared and exclaimed, “Everything! Everything about this damned quest makes me uneasy! You,” he pointed at her, pausing momentarily to whirl around and send his displeasure hurtling through the air, “should have told me from the beginning that you were the – the – “

“The Dragonborn,” she supplied serenely, and his anger doubled.

“Yes, _that!_ And you should tell me now why you even agreed to this quest in the first place. Surely you have more important things to do than go gallivanting across the country with me.” 

He didn’t let her explain though, and just blundered on, “And I don’t like you’re attitude either. Why are you so damned emotionless about everything, anyway?! _And you kissed me!”_

Oh. Well he hadn’t meant to say that but now that it was out in the open he felt relieved almost. Because that kiss had been on his mind quite a bit as of late, especially the last day or so. He scowled and crossed his arms, waiting for her to say something. She did. But it wasn’t entirely what he was prepared for.

“…Was it a bad kiss?” she wondered, tilting her head. He thought he might scream.

“Was it a bad kiss?!” he asked incredulously, eyebrows rising into his hairline. _Was it a bad kiss?!_ “That’s not – that is to say – no it wasn’t a bad kiss -!”  
What on earth was he supposed to say to that, anyway?! It was an incredible kiss – wait no, no it wasn’t. He was supposed to be angry and they were supposed to be fighting. 

He watched her sigh in relief and nod, muttering, “That’s good at least.” 

He rolled his eyes.

“Is that all you have to say?” he demanded furiously, thundering back into a pace that brought him back and forth across the campsite. “Answer me one thing if you refuse to acknowledge everything else: _why didn’t you tell me you were the Dragonborn?”_

He needed to know that, at least. And if he found her answer sufficient then perhaps he would be able to deal with the rest of his emotions at a later time.

She stiffened and frowned. Good, he thought. Let her be uncomfortable. Let her feel the extent of his own discomfort, at the sudden knowledge that he was traveling with a freaking hero – a Goddess, _a legend!_ Damn the Nords. Damn them and their legendary Goddess hero into Oblivion!

She shifted a little, wrapping herself back into her cloak, and brooded for a moment in silence. Then she slowly murmured, “…I thought you knew at first. Everybody knows.” 

He stared at her hard, but she wouldn’t meet his eyes, and he had half a mind to tell her that her answer was _not_ sufficient, that it wouldn’t do at all. But then she continued speaking and he listened, because there was not much else to do.

“I never go anywhere without people knowing every little thing about me. And then suddenly I met _you,_ and you _didn’t_ know, and it felt so wonderful,” she sent him a bitter smile that twisted the corners of her mouth in a wiry, indulgent expression.

“People are either afraid of me, or in awe of me. You were just…” she waved a hand at him and he felt a little lacking suddenly. 

He was what? A fool? He certainly felt it. But she didn’t call him a fool.   
Instead she just shrugged and finished with a rather soft, “…an alchemist. You didn’t care about the rest of the world. You didn’t care about gossip. I liked that.”

He paused because he didn’t know what to say. She liked him? She liked that he was a socially inept fool? It was a first. The first time anyone had actually liked that side of him and didn’t mind it. Warmth spread through him like a vice, blunting his anger and making him stumble at the loss of it. 

What did he have without his anger? It had held him up, allowed him to speak him mind. Without it he was just a meek merchant with no backbone. Wilting, he swallowed and stared at her in silence. She stared back firmly, their wills clashing into a heady mess. He didn’t know what to do.

She did. With a grunt, she stood, her cloak draped around her form and making her seem smaller than ever. Her skin looked stark and pale against that black fabric. She looked warm, too. 

With a tiny smile, she said, “As for my emotions…it certainly isn’t because I lack them. Was the kiss not proof enough of that?” 

His brow furrowed. Oh it was proof, though of what he wasn’t sure. At the time he had written it down as a mere loss of control. The atmosphere had simply called for it. It didn’t mean anything. And yet he was suddenly sure that it had meant something, for her eyes had never looked so warm, like melted honey over sweet bread, and he suddenly felt like he could fall right into their depths and stay quite comfortably there. 

The fright returned and he clenched his jaw. His pacing started back up again. He searched his brain for other complaints just to fill the gaping, intimate silence, and settled for a rather pathetic, “You should’ve told me. It changes everything you know.”

She shrugged and said, “It doesn’t change anything for me.” 

His anger returned. Of course it didn’t change anything for her – it hadn’t _affected_ her the way it had him – what a foolish Nordic thing to say! 

He opened his mouth to tell her exactly what he thought of her thoughtless words but he found that he couldn’t, because suddenly she was standing in front of him and looking intimate and it froze him. Every single part of him. His mouth worked uselessly, soundlessly. She was inches away and looked wonderful.

“It didn’t change anything,” she repeated, looking down at his lips. The warmth within her exploded, rushing over her skin with a passion that left her breathless. And she found that she couldn’t say any more. She had searched for this feeling for years and never found it, but when she was near this man it was like she felt too much of it. And the immediacy of those feelings had been boiling over ever since they’d left Windhelm together, pushing her towards him like a circling planetary body, ever in orbit. 

She shifted closer, breath pouring over his lips, eyes fierce with determination. And he floundered. He floundered because all this talk of kissing had made him feel very hot, and her proximity and her undaunted expression didn’t help to cool him down any.

And he was still angry, why shouldn’t he be?! Just because she was trying to spin him in circles didn’t mean his fury had lessened any. She had taken him for a fool and enjoyed doing it, and he did not like thinking himself a fool. No matter if he was one or not. 

Gritting his teeth, Quintus scowled, “It most certainly does change everything. You’re the Dragonbor-mmph!” 

She cut him off with a rather fluid, solid, amazingly warm kiss.

He blanked. His thoughts spun out and dropped, dead, at his feet. He felt like a fish out of water and probably looked like one as well. His eyes bugged out, staring into that golden gaze in shock. 

This was unacceptable – thoroughly unacceptable. He was a gentleman and a merchant at that, and merchants _did not_ kiss warriors or vice versa. It was just that way it was. He struggled away, hands flopping at her shoulders in a desperate attempt to break free. 

When he did, he snarled, _“What in Oblivion_ do you think you’re – “

She firmly grasped his fur cloak and brought her mouth forcefully against his again, dragging her lips so deliciously against his that Quintus could only stare, and gasp, and well, _flounder._ This was not what he had planned to happen. Not even in his wildest dreams. 

“Just shut up and kiss me back, you damned fool,” Wyn muttered, closing her eyes and tilting her mouth. Their lips fit snugly, more smoothly together, and it was probably just his own cliché soul speaking but it felt like they were _meant_ to connect so intimately. And he really couldn’t _not_ kiss her back, not when she was being so adamant about it. 

So he did. And then he moaned because Gods it was amazing. Delicious, hot, _beautiful._

The rumble of his moan swept through them and Wyn shuffled closer, bandying against the cold that crushed against their bodies. His arms slowly rose to touch her, circling around her hips. In return she did the same, until they were so locked in their embrace that neither the cold nor their own sensibilities could drag them apart. 

There was only the warmth of their mouths, the ache of their bones, and the blistering passion that tumbled over Wyn. It was pure, raw, and she dragged him harder against her as if she was trying to imprint the feel of his body permanently into her skin.

Never had she felt such emotion. Her humanity, always such a stark and boring subject, suddenly seemed brilliant and spectacular. She had done all she could for Skyrim and had been weary and downtrodden, turning away from emotions and pointless things. But _this_ was not pointless. _This_ was not a means to an end. She wasn’t sure what it was, exactly, only that she didn’t want it to stop.

Quintus was not a romantic and would never consider himself one, but he certainly kissed as if he believed himself to be the greatest, most sensitive lover in Tamriel. He clung to her tightly, unleashing both his desire and his anger into their kiss. His mouth was furious, layering down all his emotions and all his walls. 

She could do with them what she wanted, and in that moment he would let her. She could trample him, ruin him if it pleased her, but somehow he doubted he had to worry. For she took his anger and turned it into something terribly soft and very tender.

He crushed her harder to his chest and heard her squeak a little at the pressure of his embrace. And that rather put his desires on hold, because the reminder of her injuries had him breaking away with a gasp. He loosened his arms but didn’t let go of her.

They were both breathing hard, chests heaving, lips bruised and eyes dilated as they stared down at each other. And then, as if emerging from a lovely dream, Wyn smiled. It was such an honest smile that Quintus couldn’t help but return it. 

He chuckled and murmured, “Perhaps you should get your armor back on.” 

The flash of his eyes told her just why she should to such a thing, and Wyn gave him a mischievous smirk.

“Why? Am I making you uncomfortable?” she asked, dropping her lips against his jaw and trailing a rather wet and very arousing trail down his neck. He swallowed hard and she licked slowly over his adam’s apple. Gods he couldn’t believe the Dragonborn was kissing him like this. _Wyn_ was kissing him like this…damn these Nords and their crass behavior. Damn this legendary hero. Damn his common sense.

“I may not be a hot blooded Nord,” he managed to get out, and her body thrilled at the heady way his voice shifted. “…But I _am_ a man.” 

Well, she knew enough about men to know precisely what was happening to him, but she also knew enough about him to rein in her control. He wasn’t a burly warrior that she could have a quick tumble with and then forget about it come morning. Indeed she didn’t want that with him. She didn’t know what wanted but she knew that she wanted it to last a little longer than that, at least. 

So she drew away slowly, nipping one final time at his collar before withdrawing altogether. Quintus sighed out in relief, because he was very close to throwing aside his honor as a gentleman and just taking her. (Legendary status be utterly confounded.) And he didn’t want a quick tumble either. Wasn’t programmed for hasty unions and hastier retreats.

He watched her with heady eyes as she strapped her armor back on, tucking his fingers hard against his sides as he fought with the wild desire to stop her, rip it back off, touch her as a man might touch a woman. She saw everything that passed through his eyes and smirked, clearly enjoying this more unbalanced side of him. Well at least one of them enjoyed it. Quintus himself felt that it was rather inconvenient. Everything about today was, though that didn’t make it any less pleasant.

Wyn broke away from him with a laugh, “Can you believe our luck? Now all we need is the unmelting snow and then you’ll be able to fix the phial.” 

The reminder of their quest left Quintus floundering yet again, but for a very different reason this time.

The quest was halfway finished now, and what had come of it so far? Two of the ingredients and a blissful kiss that had left him more shaken than he cared to admit.

Obviously she felt something for him otherwise she would not have kissed him so tenderly, but was he reading too much into it? He had never kissed a warrior before. Perhaps a warrior’s kiss was less meaningful and more spontaneous, filled with sudden passion that peaked one moment then faded the next. He frowned at this thought, studying Wyn’s (cooler, tranquil) figure as she knelt before her pack. 

He was no warrior. He did not know how to court one. What did you say to someone like her, anyway, especially now that he knew she was the Dragonborn?

Things had been complicated before; now they were just ridiculous. They could kiss themselves into a stupor all the way to the Throat of the World, but it still wouldn’t change the fact that she was a hero and he was…nothing. He was nothing. A simple Imperial merchant who liked alchemy a little too much.

He could have stewed in these dismal thoughts all night had he the chance, but as he peered out into the snowy landscape around them, those thoughts were very quickly replaced by more alarming sentiments.

“Wyn…” he said, eyes widening. She glanced up at him, eyes still molten, body still warm, but he hardly noticed. He was fixated on a sight that made his blood curdle in his veins. A sight that had even his stoic companion cursing foully.

“Ysgramor’s balls!” she exclaimed, and he might’ve blushed at the profanity in any other situation, but this time he just stared ahead and felt his heart plummet into his stomach. Because not even half a mile into the distance was a giant. Following their tracks. Looking extremely angry.

“Get the horses ready,” she immediately ordered, turning away and fumbling into the rest of her armor as fast as she could. The sight of her hopping on one foot as she pulled a boot one would have easily made him laugh in any normal circumstance. But as it was Quintus could only do as she asked, piling their saddlebags back onto the mounts as fast as he possibly could, frozen fingers aching in protest.

They hadn’t really unpacked their things and so it was easy to put it all back together. By the time Wyn had finished tugging on her gloves, boots, and armor, Quintus had gotten their horses ready and was waiting for her. 

She tossed some snow over the fire hastily, pulled herself into her saddle, and said, “Stay close to me, alchemist. We ride through the night.” 

Quintus could only nod, exhausted by the mere prospect of it.

Ride through the night they did, and he hadn’t even a second to spare for the thoughts that had bothered him before. The only good thing about those terrible, sleepless hours was the memory of Wyn’s lips on his, and the heat of her kiss kept him warm throughout the entirety of their midnight ride and well into the morning.


	20. Thistle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's a short chapter for you guys. As always, thanks for the reviews and kudos! Next chapter should be out soon!

Wyn had a remarkable way of tapping off her emotions. By dawn, Quintus was starting to wonder if she had even remembered their passionate embrace hours before. She acted as she always did, and in a way it was comforting. In another way, however, it was downright baffling and extremely off putting. But he tried to follow her example, telling himself that the wilds were no place for affection, and that Wyn was only following this unwritten code.

They had put quite a few leagues between them and the giant during the nighttime ride, and by the time the sun crested over Skyrim, they were both of them exhausted and hungry beyond measure. Quintus was also a little happier, if for no other reason than the fact that they had left the cold snow behind them. They were back in the plains of Whiterun hold, where the earth was warmer and the sun shone a little brighter. He was no longer shivering and his fingers were not frozen, and that was certainly something to be pleased about. 

Back on the Old Road, with the forest around them and the sun glistening down in hazy delight, Wyn felt happier too. She pulled up her horse and said tiredly, “We’ll stop here and rest a bit. You look like you could use some sleep.” 

She said nothing about her own desire for sleep, and indeed doubted she would get any even if she tried. The giant was long behind and wouldn’t venture so far into these plains and into other giant’s territory, but other dangers no doubt lurked unseen.

She had resigned herself to another day of no sleep, but that hardly meant her alchemist couldn’t get some much needed rest. He certainly looked like he needed it: he was drooping on his mount and his eyes were already half shut in a light stupor.

“Mmph,” he muttered, having no energy to say any more. His body screamed in protest as he dismounted, but once he was firmly footed on the ground he felt only a tired relief that perforated through the entirety of him. Never had he thought himself capable of the things they had done together on this quest. Outrunning a furious giant had certainly never made his list of expectations for this journey. Just the thought it pulled him even deeper into his exhaustion.

Together they led their horses, who were also in great need of rest, into the underbrush near the road. After marching about a quarter of a mile into the woods, Wyn stopped and looked around. 

“This seems like it will make as good a camp as any. You start unpacking and I’ll scout the area.” She would take as many precautions as needed to make sure they were well and truly safe. The giant ordeal had been far too close a call.

Quintus sluggishly did as she asked, searching the area for some large stones in which to make a campfire. He laid them in a circle and then proceeded to unpack his bedroll, their cooking pot, and the bag of smoke meat they had brought along from Rorikstead. By the time Wyn returned, looking pleased at the safety of the area, Quintus had already begun to get a fire ready and had made their makeshift camp quite hospitable.

“We’ll be safe here for now,” Wyn informed him, joining him by the fire and unloading a pile of dry wood she had gathered while she’d been away. A comfortable silence descended upon them as they got a meal together. While the meat was boiling into a stew, Wyn helped chop some dried vegetables up and said, “We should move on in a few hours. I want to be past Whiterun by nightfall.” 

Quintus nodded and responded with a tired, “Any amount of sleep would be welcome. Though I think we’re making good time on this journey, don’t you?”

They’d started their little quest only three weeks prior, and had already gotten two of the ingredients. That was more than he had hoped when starting out. His master needed him and he was pleased to think that they would be returning to Windhelm faster than he’d originally planned.

The thought of Windhelm struck him strangely, and suddenly a new realization rather took him off guard. He had been sluggishly trying to come to terms with Wyn’s sudden identity, and had rather overlooked one thing in particular. A fact that he had known, but had never connected the dots to. The thought cleared away the dregs of his exhaustion and he looked up at Wyn with new eyes, musing silently at her. 

She glanced over at him as well and asked, “What is it?”

He frowned and slowly said, “…Your full name is Brynwyn, isn’t it? And so that must mean that _you’re_ the new Thane of Windhelm that everyone’s been speaking of.” 

The name had struck him as odd when he’d first heard it in Rorikstead, but his naivety had shrouded his judgment, and the tumble of events after leaving that little village had also lessened his perception of the truth. Now, he wondered how he could ever have missed it.

She shrugged, ever placid, and murmured, “Took you long enough to realize, alchemist. Yes, I’m Thane of Windhelm, and a great many other holds as well for that matter.” 

Then she frowned and muttered, “…Ulfric rather forced it upon me.” She mumbled a particularly scathing curse and Quintus’s eyes widened.

“Ulfric Stormcloak forced you into Thaneship? Why?” he was no longer surprised that Wyn was on first name basis with the Jarl of Windhelm. She was the Dragonborn and was probably on first name basis with every important person in Skyrim. But the annoyance in her voice did surprise him, and he was curious.

Wyn laughed bitterly and stirred the stew in an almost idle manner. If not for her tense shoulders, Quintus might have fallen for the ruse, but he knew her too well by now to be so foolish. She shrugged and calmly said, “Why would anyone go out of their way to be my friend? It certainly isn’t because I have a charming personality.”

He stared at her. Something in her voice gave him pause. Beneath the serenity of her words lay something sour and unguarded, and even her diplomatic nature could not hide it. It was loneliness, plain and simple, and he was surprised…and yet very much unsurprised at the same time.

He had never thought whether she had friends. She always seemed so untouchable to him that the mere idea seemed strange in and of itself, but now he was without a doubt positive that simple friendships were behind her. The Dragonborn could ill afford to trust readily. The thought made him feel pained, almost, to know that she was so alone even while she was so famous. But her fame was the very reason for her loneliness, and he frowned at that.

Slowly, he said, “…Well you are a friend to me. And if you will have me…perhaps I will overlook this charming personality of yours.” 

Her head snapped up and he immediately felt uncomfortable. He cleared his throat and waited for her to say something to his foolish words, but she only smiled. It was such a warm smile that Quintus found he could hardly breathe at the sight of it, and only stared, returning her gaze as unwaveringly as he could manage.

“Oh Quintus…” she murmured softly, smiling in an almost sad way, “Yes, I will have you…though perhaps you would not give your friendship away so easily if you knew what I am capable of doing. I am not so heroic as Skyrim believes. I have done terrible things. Things I regret.” 

And she had. Bartering with Daedra and taking pleasure in her kills were not even half of the evils she had committed.

Quintus cleared his throat again and said, “If you regret doing these things, then surely you aren’t as bad as you think. You helped my master and myself without even asking for something in return. No,” he said with a nod, “I believe you are good.” 

The conclusion came with it a startling array of happiness that bolted through him. He smiled at Wyn and his stomach rumbled suddenly, making him chuckle and blush.

“I don’t care if the meat is raw, I cannot wait another moment to eat,” he said pleasantly, and proceeded to spoon some of the stew into his waiting bowl, aware of Wyn’s surprised eyes on him the entire while.

And she was surprised, that much was certain, for no one had ever come to the conclusion that she was wholesome and good. Even when she had killed Alduin and saved the world, people had seen her and found her lacking somehow. 

She was not a great hero like Ysgramor, who the people of Skryim loved unconditionally. No one loved her unconditionally, even if they did respect her. This simple alchemist, who wasn’t even a Nord, had surprised her yet again. Would she ever not be surprised at what he said, and did, and made her feel? Perhaps not.  
She slowly smiled, and Quintus returned the smile over the rim of his bowl. They ate together in that companionable silence for a while, and then Quintus couldn’t stop his innate curiosity from getting the better of him. 

“So what is Hjerim Hall like? It has always been empty while I lived in Windhelm. It is such a big mansion!” And Wyn laughed and began to tell him what it was like living in that huge drafty house, with a Housecarl to do her bidding and look after things. And she told him also of the other places she called her own, the other houses that she had in the other holds, and how they were all too big for her. Empty and lonely. 

And he listened to her tales until he began to nod off the sleep, and proceeded to dream about the gilded bronze of Markarth and the damp wood of Riften and the gleaming cobblestone of Solitude. And she watched over him as he slept and thought over his words, musing at them until each syllable was printed permanently into her mind, never to fall away.

She finally had a friend. And perhaps even more than that, she finally found a soul like hers.


	21. Nirnroot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reviews/Kudos=Love and faster updates ;D  
> Enjoy the chapter!

They rested for four hours before Wyn shook Quintus awake. While he was sleeping, she had taken it upon herself to pack of the few things they’d gotten out. She’d also taken the liberty of washing in a nearby river, and looked much cleaner as a result of it. Quintus would have liked the same opportunity, but Wyn assured him that they would have more chances later that night, and that the water would be warmer and more refreshing. She hadn’t minded the burst of cold that the river supplied, but had a feeling that Quintus would. 

“The water that cuts through Riverwood will make for a nicer bath,” she told him as she adjusted the saddle on her steed, her wet hair dripping down her back. “And I haven’t yet given up hope that we might be able to make use of an inn tonight, either.” The thought of sleeping in an actual bed sounded nothing short of spectacular compared to the restless nights spent digging rocks from beneath his bedroll. 

“Do you think we’ll make it then?” he wondered idly, heaving his still sleepy person into his saddle. Wyn hummed and nodded, chewing over her response as she looked up at the sun.

“Perhaps. If not, we’ll certainly make it tomorrow, and we’ll stay an extra day there. I’d like to restock our supplies,” she said. Their food had grown sadly depleted, and while Wyn could have hunted for better meat, she also didn’t want to leave Quintus alone in case trouble descended upon him while she was gone. They had been living on dried vegetables and the last of their smoked meat during the past two days, and Quintus had been dreaming of spiced Imperial sausages and a decent glass of red wine for a while now.

There was also the small fact that Wyn felt rather unwilling to let their quest be over so soon. While she hadn’t slowed their pace just for this reason, she certainly had been tempted to. It was only her worry for Quintus’s unadventurous spirit that had driven her to keep pushing on at her usual speed, and the knowledge that Nurelion didn’t have much more time. Quintus would be heartbroken if he didn’t get to see his master off properly.

They rode for several more hours, making good use of the late afternoon sun to guide their way. With the desire to reach Riverwood by nightfall firmly in her heart, Wyn pushed them on in an almost relentless manner, but Quintus hardly complained. 

He was sore and tired and hungry, but the thought of staying at an inn did wonders for his motivation. He was pleased, especially, when the path before them widened and showed signs of civilization. Passing travelers and merchants greeted them on the road, and Quintus watched with growing curiosity as Wyn became more and more closed off as they approached the small riverside village. 

It was later than normal for travelers to enter the little town, but not totally unexpected. They entered by the main road, crossing the bridge just as night fitfully descended upon them, and before they had even rode up to the inn, Wyn had tied her stark silver hair behind her head and buried herself into the hood of her cloak. She hid herself well, though not well enough it seemed. Not for the people of Riverwood.

Quintus felt eyes on them the moment they entered the inn. The horses had been left outside in the little stable that the inn provided, and they were both in need of warm food and a good song. They got both, and more, for the innkeeper seemed to favor Wyn the moment he recognized her. The hood had not helped whatsoever.

“Dragonborn!” the innkeeper exclaimed, and everyone immediately stopped what they were doing to watch as the fabled Dragonborn ordered two simple meals and two simple rooms. They were in total awe of her, it seemed, and her poor table manners hardly made any difference. 

“Can I get you anything else?” the innkeeper asked, and his eyes flickered to Quintus in a rather dubious way, as if he was wondering if the two were actually traveling together. Quintus cleared his throat, uncomfortable at the attention and the implication that he was not the normal companion that the Dragonborn kept. This he knew well, but he didn’t much appreciate it when other people knew it too.

“No, thank you,” Wyn said with a wave of her hand, and snatched up both plates with a nod. She glanced at an empty table by the fire and Quintus followed her to it. 

The plates were set down and Wyn sighed, muttering, “I might as well make myself comfortable now that everyone knows who I am. I’ll return shortly.” He nodded, too hungry to bother changing quite yet, and she sauntered off quickly before her food got too cold.

The moment she closed herself into her quarters, a shadow fell across Quintus’s table and he looked up. He was rather startled to see a handsome blonde Nord staring hard at him. There was certainly something wrong with the way the Nord’s eyes narrowed, and it made Quintus immediately wary. 

He swallowed his mouthful of meat and slowly wondered, “Erm…can I help you?” The eyes narrowed further.

“No, _you_ can’t help me,” the brawny Nord lamented with a fierce frown. “Nobody can help me now, not after your precious Dragonborn stuck her nose into my business.”

Quintus was considering telling the Nord that the Dragonborn surely wasn’t his, but he rather liked the way it sounded and couldn’t bring himself to correct him. Instead he just raised an eyebrow curiously and asked, “Oh? Well if I can’t help you then perhaps – “

“Why would you travel with such a coldhearted woman?” the Nord demanded. Now that Quintus began to study him, he realized that the Nord wasn’t speaking soberly. It wasn’t terribly obvious, but when he swayed a little on his feet, Quintus knew. Nords were renowned for holding their liquor and there was no telling how much this one had to drink. Quintus proceeded carefully, disappointed that he couldn’t just turn back to his meal. He was starving.

But before Quintus could speak, Wyn’s voice cut through the conversation, “Sven, I wish you’d stop pestering my alchemist when he’s trying to eat. Did your da not teach you any manners?” 

The words were calm, careful in a way that Quintus had come to expect from her. Suddenly she appeared to him as the same Nord who had first entered his shop all those months before. She looked supremely bored again. As if being back in Riverwood had turned something off in her personality and had blanketed it with that stoic, solid listlessness.

She was wearing her doeskin leathers and the tunic she had worn in Rorikstead. The outfit was probably her only acceptable one but to Quintus it looked perfect, and he watched as she took her seat and began to dig into her meal without another word. Meanwhile Sven scowled, swayed, and muttered incoherently. And yet Wyn seemed to know exactly what was being muttered, something that Quintus was still getting used to.

“You did that yourself when you tried to get me to lie to a poor naïve woman,” Wyn said as she lifted a mug of mead to her lips. Her eyes flashed to the Nord and she looked rather dangerous, even though she was weaponless and armorless and looking almost common. But there was nothing about her that was common, and she herself was a weapon not to be trifled with. Quintus had seen that with his own eyes and needed no further proof. 

“Now I’d appreciate it if you’d stop bringing up the subject every time I enter your quaint little town.”

There was no insult in her eyes, but her voice trembled with commanding power and her eyes shone at the drunken Nord. Quintus had never witnessed this happening as a bystander. The way her eyes flashed had him leaning in, heat scorching through his body like a vice. Her power was tangible in the very air and he noted with vague recognition that the entire inn had stopped as well to watch the transaction.

Sven wasn’t stupid even if he did look a bit daft, and drunk to boot. Even in his current predicament, he seemed to know that the Dragonborn meant business. And so without another word, the Nord muttered and stumbled from the inn, and Wyn raised a calm eyebrow at his exit and went back to eating as if nothing had happened. 

Quintus watched. The inn watched. And then after a moment everyone else also returned to their own business.

“Well?” he asked after a moment of silence. 

Wyn glanced at him over the rim of her mug, looking rather bored, and wondered, “Well what?” 

He rolled his eyes.

“Well aren’t you going to explain what just happened?” he prompted, but he couldn’t resist going back to his own meal as he waited. There was nothing like warm food after so many cold days in the wilderness.

Wyn scoffed with a chuckle and said idly, “You sound like a scullery maid who’s been left out on the latest gossip.” 

When he sent her a glare, though, she relented. “Very well. But I warn you, it isn’t an interesting story. It’s about a love letter. Silly really.” 

Only a warrior would think love was silly, Quintus thought with a dismal sigh, and pondered briefly on whether her blatant disregard for romance was one of the reasons they hadn’t addressed their kiss yet. He was beginning to wonder if he had just imagined it all.

Around a mouthful of chicken, Wyn explained, “There was a woman here in Riverwood named Camilla Valerius. She was the prize of the village. Two men, Sven and a Bosmer named Faendal, wanted her for their own. But they were both immature.” 

She waved a hand and shrugged, “They tried to get rid of the other by writing false and childish letters in the other’s name. I put a stop to it and informed Camilla what was really going on. The girl thanked me. The other two did not.”

Quintus stared in surprise, for he had not expected a story such as this. And yet he was not surprised. Wyn _would_ put a quick end to such petty arguments. He took a drink of his mead and wondered, “And what of Camilla?” 

He knew enough of Skyrim to know that marriage was sacred but sudden, and that marriage partners were hard to come by. Had Camilla grown to be an old maid, then? Never achieving a woman’s purpose, looked down upon because of her station and her spinsterhood? Had Wyn ruined the one she had set out to assist?

Quintus understood why Wyn would never have considered marriage (ha, the mere thought of her as a wife made his head spin), but for her to take such an opportunity away from someone else seemed quite…

Wyn watched all these emotions cross his face, for Quintus was not practiced at hiding his thoughts, especially from her. 

In a wry voice, she said, “You think my actions were thoughtless, that I did not stop to consider the effects of taking from Camilla the only two suitors in this village.” 

Her voice was so smooth and tranquil that Quintus halted to look at her, curious and interested in how she would explain her actions. 

But she only smiled a small, secretive smile, and said, “I was born in a smaller place than this, alchemist. I know better than most how difficult it is to find a husband. My own husband was even less of a man than that ridiculous bard Sven.”  
And that was about the time where Quintus spluttered out a shocked and very incredulous, “Y-You were _married?!”_

She looked slightly amused at his disbelief. She gave him a sideways glance and raised an eyebrow, “Of course I was. Did you think I was always the way I am now? In any case,” she shrugged, “I sent several strong men in Camilla’s direction and she got her pick of them. She lives in Whiterun now, has two little runts. Thanks me every time I visit her.” 

But her obvious attempt at changing the course of their conversation didn’t work, and Quintus hardly even heard the conclusion anyway. His thoughts were focused on the startling new fact that Wyn was in fact a…what was she? A widow? Or was she still married, was her husband still around – and in that case, what was he doing with her?! Kissing her around campfires and dreaming of her and admiring her as she rode in front of him –

“And your husband?” he blurted, for he simply had to know. “What of him?”  
He was surprised at his strong desire to hear that the man was dead. It was unlike him to want something so destructive but he couldn’t deny that the cadence of his hopes rose up within him at the thought.

Wyn hardly even looked his way. She was still, perfectly immobile, but not tense. After what seemed like a very long, very drawn out moment, Wyn smiled blandly and went back to eating. Quintus could have died with impatience as he waited.

“…He is dead. A tragic accident,” she responded, and yet there was something almost bitter in her voice that made Quintus’s hopeful happiness falter. He paused, studying her profile as if he expected all the answers to his questions to come streaming into existence. Her stillness and her short, clipped response…yes, there was something she wasn’t telling him. But he hardly felt he had the right to demand answers from her.

“I see,” he said after a moment, but it was very clear that he did not see. He sighed and went back to eating. He had never before met a woman who was such a profound mystery. Every layer of her was consumed in a myriad of confusing sub-layers, and Quintus could not hope to unravel them all. The task seemed far too daunting for a simple man such as himself.

They ate the remainder of their meal in silence, and at the end of it, Wyn retreated into her room with a gentle, “Good night.” 

He watched her go in concern, wondering at the almost saddened way she carried herself, and he could not stop thinking of this husband of hers, and what he had meant to her. Feeling as if he was lacking in some way, Quintus sighed and also went to bed early, for the warmth of the fire and the sway of the bard’s songs no longer put him at ease. 

That night he tossed and turned, unused to sleeping on a soft mattress, and was surprised when he found himself longing for the ground beneath him, the sky above him, and Wyn’s presence across the campfire watching over him.


	22. Bear Claws

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! December is always one of those busy months, right? Hope everyone is ready for Christmas and has done all their shopping! I'm planning on updating the story either on Thursday or Friday, so make sure you check back later this week

The next morning dawned bright and early, and Quintus lay in his bed for as long as he could manage, listening to the sounds of the inn awakening. He was finally more accustomed to waking up early, but that didn’t mean he enjoyed doing it. His body roused him from his sleep and he grumbled to himself, wishing he had not grown so used to this, and once more dreaming of his shop and his bed and his late morning breakfasts. 

The life of a merchant was simple and dull perhaps. But to him there was nothing better than experimenting with new ingredients while he sat down to an enjoyable breakfast of spiced sausages and freshly brewed coffee. (Two things he had not had for three whole weeks.)

He sighed and finally rolled out of bed, splashed some cold water on his face with the supplied basin, and began the long process of remembering how to get his leather gear on. Last night had been one of the first times he had actually taken it off, having found it safer (if not uncomfortable) to sleep with it while on the road. Wyn slept in hers and so he followed her example, but there was no way he would bother with such things in the safety of an inn.

Feeling rather disheveled, Quintus took longer than usual to find all the buckles and make sure his things were properly packed. When he was finished, he opened his door and stepped into the main room of the inn, expecting to see Wyn already eating breakfast or perhaps readying their horses. Except she wasn’t anywhere to be found, and when he inquired into this, the sleepy innkeeper said he hadn’t seen her yet. 

Quintus frowned at that, as it was highly irregular for him to be up and about before her, but thought that perhaps she was just tired. So he went outside to check on the horses, finding them comfortably situated in the little stables, and wandered around Riverwood a bit. It was a bright, sunny day and he was in no mood to wake Wyn up and leave the peaceful hamlet prematurely.

It took him no more than five minutes to walk from one end of the village to the other, and those five minutes were filled with pauses and nods of hello and other civilized small talk that Quintus happened to be quite adept in. (He’d had to be, especially considering how much his master had disregarded such trivialities.) 

At the gates, he stopped, looked out morosely into the wilderness with a reluctant sigh, and then turned back, figuring that it was probably smart to wake Wyn lest she grow angry with him for letting them lose precious hours of daylight.

He didn’t get very far, however, before a voice called out to him in greeting and he turned to it. It was the blacksmith, and he was leaning against the rail of his forge mopping his forehead with a rag, for he had already been up several hours and was quite tired and hot. 

“Good Morndas, friend. You’re the one traveling with the Dragonborn.” 

The words were neither a question nor a statement, but somewhere in between, and Quintus paused at the inquiry, unsure how to respond. He thought it was very typically Nordic, to ask and state something at the same time, and in a rather resigned voice (for he’d had enough to Nords to last a lifetime and then some), Quintus said, “Yes. And we’ve already tarried here long enough. I must go wake my companion – “

The old Nord hardly let him finish. As soon as he heard the word ‘yes’, he nodded and ignored everything else that came out of the Imperial’s mouth. 

“Haven’t seen her around these parts in over a year now. Not since Helgen in fact.”

Very typically Nord, Quintus decided with a barely hidden scowl, but couldn’t deny that his curiosity was piqued. 

“Helgen?” he asked aloud, for he had heard the stories but only a little of them. Tales of the Dragonborn had hardly interested him before, and he’d often thought that the ones he had heard were too dramatic for any kind of reality to fester. The bards no doubt spun the stories into all manner of ridiculous mistruths. 

The old Nord made a very Nordic sound in the back of his throat and moved to mop up the back of his neck. “Aye, Helgen. Came running down the mountain pass s’if hell itself was on her tale…well, I s’pose it was, considering she’d nearly been executed and killed in dragon fire the same afternoon.” 

He chuckled and Quintus bit his tongue, trying to imagine Wyn running down like a crazy woman, waving her hands and trying to tell everyone that she’d seen a dragon. They no doubt thought she was insane.

Quintus had heard this story, but he’d always thought it was a made up version of the actual events. He hadn’t bothered trying to find out what really happened. (He was far too busy with a new batch of magicka potions, nasty business that, as they had to brew for a very specific time otherwise the lingering effect could do more damage than help - ) 

At the time, Quintus had simply written off such outlandish tales as a silly dramaticized story to be laughed at around a campfire. Not the actual truth. But this man had been there when everything started, and if he said it was true then Quintus would have to believe it.

“So she really was nearly executed?” he asked, surprised to find that the story he’d rolled his eyes at all this time was actually real. 

The Nord raised an eyebrow and shrugged, “That’s what Hadvar told me. My son,” he added, “An Imperial officer. He was there when it happened. Said she was caught crossing the border into Skyrim illegally. Don’t know why, didn’t ask. Ain’t my business, ye ken.” He paused, then mused, “I’m surprised you don’t know about this. You are traveling with her, aren’t you?”

Quintus rubbed the back of his neck with an awkward chuckle, and muttered, “Yeah…well she isn’t exactly forthcoming with her past.” 

He thought of last night, of the new and startling fact that she’d had a husband. What other secrets did she have? And did he have the right to ask after them? But still, he couldn’t stop thinking about why she was crossing the border of Skyrim illegally. Why was it so important that she reach Skyrim, that she ignored the customary and legal ways of entering the country? 

Perhaps she was in some kind of trouble, he thought, and then that begged the next question: what was she doing in Cyrodiil to begin with? Why had she left Skyrim and why did she need to come back to it so quickly?

The blacksmith gave Quintus a wave and said, “It’s back to work for me, lad. Tell your Dragonborn old Alvor said hello, aye?” And then he turned, tossed the rag he’d been holding onto a workbench, and took up his hammer. 

Quintus heard the dull ring of that hammer all the way back to the inn, and he couldn’t stop trying to fill in the blanks of his knowledge with perilous stories of Wyn’s escapades. But thieves, assassins, and spies mattered little once he stepped back into the inn and saw that Wyn had still not woken up yet. He brushed those thoughts away and sighed, deciding to just enter her room and wake her himself.

He did, and the sight of her still curled up in bed made him pause for a number of reasons. The first was because he had a very sudden daydream: he was holding a plate of eggs and bacon, and the bed she lay upon was bigger, fit for two. He vaguely registered it as his master’s old bed above the shop, but he hardly paid that thought any mind. For Wyn was then opening her eyes and, seeing him standing there with her breakfast, she smiled a very warm, very happy smile that made his heart burn. 

But she would never be in his bed, he thought with a frown, and crossed his arms as he stood in the inn doorway. A few rogue kisses meant little to the Dragonborn. Right? He wished they meant as little to him, if only to stop his heart from spiraling out of control whenever she was near.

He took several steps toward her and paused, for perhaps he was surprised at the sight she made, and at the feelings that rose up within him because of it. Sleep often changed a person, relaxed them, made them more wholesome. It did that to Wyn too, and for a split second Quintus couldn’t look away. Her features were smooth and tranquil as usual, but relaxed in ways they weren’t when she was awake. 

Without all her hard edges, she looked like a young girl who’d been tossed into the tides of fate and lost there. And he wanted to protect her. He wanted to protect Wyn, not the Dragonborn, for that side of her could protect itself. But this side was pure and innocent and he knew in that moment that he would do anything to keep it that way.

But the moment passed and before Quintus could so much as move, Wyn’s golden eyes were flying open and she was sitting up, staring at him in the kind of wild manner that a sleepy person possesses. He noticed that her hand is gripping something beneath her pillow and swallowed, for it hardly took a scholar to unravel that mystery. He shouldn’t have been surprised to know that Wyn slept with a dagger under her pillow. She was the Dragonborn after all. He shouldn’t have been surprised that she’d woken up so easily either, and was suddenly glad that he hadn’t approached any farther.

“Quintus,” she said, forgetting in her sleepiness to use his preferred nickname. He quite liked her using his actual name though, and cleared his throat as he thought of the little scene he’d come up with prior to her waking up. How glorious that would be, if such a thing came true.

“Erm…” he shifted, uncomfortable, and murmured, “Sorry to wake you – but ah, the morning’s grown late – “

“Talos!” she exclaimed the moment she heard the word ‘late’, and threw the blankets away. He looked away in an attempt at giving her privacy, though it hardly did any good for the room was small and he could still see her. Wyn didn’t seem to care much about privacy anyway, for she didn’t even blink as she grabbed her armor and began to buckle it around her with fingers that knew nothing of the fogginess of sleep. She was wide awake now and hungry.

“Did you eat?” she asked, glancing at Quintus. 

He shrugged and responded, “I was waiting for you.” 

He heard her shuffle things into her pack and then, only minutes later, turned to him fully garbed and ready for battle. Warriors were such a strange people, he thought, always rushing through the important parts of the day. Like breakfast. 

And rush she did, all but wolfing down the chicken and leftover stew from the night before, tossing coin onto the counter and leaving to ready their horses. By the time the door swung shut, Quintus had only taken five or six bites. Once again he remained unimpressed in the face of a warrior’s charm. (Or there lack of.)

They were off on the next leg of their journey shortly after. Wyn set a cruel pace, though Quintus couldn’t blame her. They had lost close to two hours in their slow start, and by the time they rested for lunch, it was well past the normal hour to be eating such a meal. 

He appreciated the rest nonetheless, feeling sore from riding so quickly and trying to keep up with his swift companion. As they sat down and got a little fire going, Quintus could tell that Wyn appreciated the break too, though she was too stubborn to allow her relief to be too noticeable. He’d become fairly adept at reading her face by now, and simply knew.

They ate a quick and silent meal before going on. Questions burned within Quintus’s mind, but he was either too shy or too careful to inquire after their answers. They were close, close enough to share intimate moments and several other things as well, but they had not yet spoken of their pasts. And that was why Quintus decided on a particular course of action that he proceeded to launch into on their journey through the mountain pass toward Ivarstead.

“I never told you why I became an alchemist,” he started hesitantly, glancing sideways at Wyn as he searched for her reaction. 

She caught his eye and raised one eyebrow curiously. Her surprise was apparent in her expression, though he didn’t know where it stemmed from. Was she surprised at the silence being broken, or the rather spontaneous topic that he had decided on? But Quintus figured that perhaps by sharing more of his own past with her, Wyn might be tempted to return to the favor with stories of her own childhood.

Her attention captured, Wyn tilted her head and asked diplomatically, “Do you mean to share the story with me?” She sounded pleased for the conversation. 

Quintus gave her a small smile and shrugged, “If you’d like to hear it.” He waited for her nod and leaned back in his saddle, immediately launching into the story, for he had spent most of the day thinking of the details. 

“My parents were not talented in the alchemical arts. My father was a merchant. I was born in the city and rarely went outside of its walls. I wasn’t the adventurous type, as you know.”

Wyn chuckled at this, “You still aren’t, alchemist.” The quip was well received: Quintus laughed and agreed. He knew very well that he cared more for the comforts of home over the excitement of the open countryside.

“Well I stumbled upon alchemy by chance. It happened one afternoon on my way home from my father’s store. I was studying finance so that one day I could take over the business, but I hated every moment of it.” 

He rubbed the back of his neck, thinking back on those days of his youth and how he loathed having to balance the records and check the finances of the store. He still hated doing it, though he had gotten much better at it over the years.

“The Elven District in the Imperial City had enormous gardens and I enjoyed walking by them on my way home. It was there that I met my first teacher, an Imperial named Pavus Egnallus. He was one of the city alchemists who worked at the Arcane University. His apprentice hadn’t shown up and he was cursing and pacing up and down 1st Avenue…” he laughed again because he could remember it so vividly, the sight of his first master angrily swearing his no-show apprentice to Oblivion.

“Anyway,” he said with a smile, “I offered to help him collect the samples he needed from the gardens and catalogue them all back at the University. By the time I got home, it was dark and I was dirty and had misplaced my financial logs, but I knew it was what I was meant to do.”

Wyn watched the fondness grow on Quintus’s face curiously, trying to connect with his story. She could not fathom being so interested in alchemy, or anything really besides combat and exploration. But the sight of her alchemist’s face was enough to make her want to know. Want to understand his childhood and learn more of it.   
“And your parents?” she asked, “What of them?” 

“My mother was a gentle, understanding woman,” he told her after a moment. “She convinced my father to let me pursue alchemy, and I didn’t disappoint them. I managed to get into the University with Pavus’s help, and built my career up from there.”

Wyn hummed. She also could not understand the impact that an understanding mother might have on a child. She had never known her mother to be gentle or understanding. Their childhoods, it seemed, were as different as the countries they hailed from.

Soft silence descended upon them, and Quintus waited for her to perhaps delve into a story of her own. He desperately wanted to ask about several burning questions, like her marriage or the reason she had entered Skyrim illegally or why she was nearly beheaded upon doing so…but his hesitance won out. 

Instead he merely wondered, “…And you? How did you become an adventurer?” 

The gently prying question made her turn to look at him, but she didn’t back down, and for that he was grateful. It did take a while for her to respond to him though. He waited patiently until at last she said in a halting manner, “Like you, I…stumbled into the profession by chance.” 

She then quieted, and Quintus wondered if that was all she would offer. But happily it was not, and after a long moment full of dreadful and impatient silence, Wyn shrugged and said, “I was born on a small homestead as a trader’s daughter. It wasn’t until Helgen that I took up the sword and began a life as an adventurer.”

Silence again, and Quintus had to bite down on his lower lip in order to stop himself from blurting any blunt questions out into the open. There was so much he wanted to know…and so much he was afraid to ask.

The talk of Helgen, though, opened up a whole new branch of questions that were suddenly much more accessible to him, and Quintus slowly said, “…You know, I always thought the tales of Helgen were just stories made up by admiring Nords. Would it be rude of me to ask…to ask what happened?” 

Please answer, he thought desperately, please please please – 

“Rude of you?” Wyn laughed, sending him a twinkling smile that made her entire face light up beautifully. “No, I don’t suppose it would be rude. Many people have asked and so I will tell you what I tell all the others: Helgen was a mistake and the Imperial Legionnaires are damned fools. I don’t know what brought Alduin to that village – whether it was Ulfric or myself – but it started a chain of events that have not only ruined the lives of those around me, but my own life as well.”

There was something guarded in her words even though her face was so open. Quintus glanced at her, leaning back in his saddle and studying her profile. He wasn’t sure if he should try to continue the conversation or let it go, and Wyn seemed to be quite aware of his dilemma.

“Go on and ask me whatever you need to know, alchemist, or you’ll surely die of curiosity,” she added with a slightly bitter note hanging off her words. He paused, but could not ultimately stop himself from accepting the offer. It was probably the best one he would get.

He cleared his throat and remained silent for a time, mulling over his thoughts and trying to give them more clarity. Once they were properly ordered, from great to least importance, Quintus opened his mouth to wonder, “Being the Dragonborn can’t be that bad, surely? You’re a hero.” 

He had to get to the bottom of those guarded words first, he decided, and waited for her answer. It came not long after, with an immediacy that hinted that perhaps she’d been thinking of this for a very long time.

“Fitting in was never something I strived for, even as a child. But trying to find a place in a world full of humans is even harder.” 

He looked at her with a frown and said, “What do you mean by that? You are a human – “

“I am a human cursed with a dragon’s soul, to forever long for things I cannot have because my body makes those wishes impossible,” she cut in, effectively burning his words and setting him on a whole new path of thought. 

She chuckled almost bitterly and turned to catch his eye. The moment that golden gaze locked onto his Quintus became transfixed, lost in the shades of glowing hazy color. He did not even notice that the horse beneath him stopped, and that suddenly they stood together in the middle of the road, directionless and alone.

“Do you know what it’s like to fly?” she asked him. It seemed as if her voice grew lower, darker, glowing in the same manner as her eyes. Quintus knew in some solitary part of his mind that he was being consumed by her, in much the same way he had been back in his shop all those weeks before, but he could not bring himself to care. He wanted to be consumed. He wanted to be put under her spell.

Her eyes flashed and she said, “Neither do I, for that is something I will never attain in this body. Nor will I ever be able to allow myself dominion over men, as my soul desires. It would be so simple to control you, Quintus…you fall beneath my gaze so easily, it’s like you want to serve me. And a part of me would also like to be served.” 

She reached out and brushed a single finger over his cheek, and he wondered how she had gotten so close without his notice. The air around her seemed to pulse, as if the world was suddenly a living breathing heart that suckered him in and buried him beneath its layers. To be buried by her sounded like a wonderful thing…he found himself leaning into her touch, overcome by a strong desire to be close to her, and that was when the spell was shattered and Wyn pulled away.

Her hand retreated and her eyes broke from his, turning instead to look into the blue sky and to be blinded by the bright sunlight. And he gasped, pulling back with surprise. He stared at her wildly, mouth flapping as words tried but failed to come. 

He found that he was most surprised by the fact that he was not angry at the way she’d used her powers on him. Actually he longed for them again, longed to feel that gold caress him and drag him into the layers of the world and out of sight. It was a shocking feeling, though perhaps not an unexpected one.

She did not look at him when she said, smiling crassly, “No. I do not fit into this world. I have defeated Alduin and my purpose has grown stale. Do you understand?”

He didn’t understand, and said nothing. He hadn’t felt like he’d fit in much either, running around as a boy and hunting down roots instead of joining the other boys in their games. But that was different. He wasn’t so naïve that he didn’t know that.

Wyn gave him a smile that looked slightly strained and unnatural, and then clucked her horse forward. He stared at her back for a long moment before following. Why did she always make him feel foolish, even when she wasn’t even trying to? 

“You’ll find that I’m not as good hearted as you like to believe, Quintus,” she called back after a moment, and turned in her saddle to catch his eye. This time when their eyes connected, there was no call, no subtle chanting of those golden pupils that tempted him forward. There was only Wyn, and in some ways that was even scarier.

She winked and smirked, sliding back around and loudly proclaiming, “Hurry up, I’d very much like to reach Ivarstead by nightfall. The thought of spending the night atop these cold mountains doesn’t sound all that nice, does it?”

Indeed, the warning made Quintus pick up the pace until he was trotting alongside his companion. Neither spoke of past memories or childhoods again, and wouldn’t for quite some time. But fate was aligning, and soon events would progress and morph into startling habits and unexpected desires; the likes of which would not only unsettle their lives, but reform them.


	23. Hanging Moss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas everyone! Hope you all have a relaxing holiday :)

Ivarstead hadn’t changed much since Wyn’s last visit. She wasn’t surprised by this. Nords were hardy and stubborn, so set in their ways that decades could pass without sight of change. This quaint little farming community was no different…and yet it was changed in one way. A way that had everything to do with the Dragonborn’s legacy.  
Wyn hated pilgrims for the same reason she hated her countrymen and plenty of other people too: they were awed by her. She usually just ignored that awe, too uninterested in exploring those rosy shades of human emotion. 

However, it was a little difficult to ignore it when people recognized her so damn much, and exalted the very ground she walked on. By the time her and Quintus entered the Vilemyr Inn, Wyn was gritting her teeth in annoyance and glaring at everyone who so much as glanced her way. It was one thing for people to notice her when she was on her own. It was another to do so with a curious Quintus Navale trailing after her with those knowing eyes.

He didn’t say anything until they were already settled for the night in the only room available to them. It was a large room with three beds. The other, single rooms were already taken by pilgrims who were journeying up the mountain. Speaking of, there were so many of them that Wyn refused to even step outside and merely collapsed onto her bed with an angry huff.

“Um…what’s all that about?” Quintus asked carefully, glancing over at her as he struggled with his leather gear. She turned narrowed golden eyes on him and he gulped, turning away but still adamantly asking, “You don’t like your own fame, do you?” It was a rather dry scramble of words. Her disdain had been fairly obvious to him for weeks now.

“Ha, you call this fame?” she muttered, and began to haphazardly unbuckle the stays of her gilded armor. A glove clattered to the floor as she grumbled, “It’s practically worship. It’d make anyone crazy.” 

Especially when they had to deal with it every day. _Especially in Ivarstead._

Quintus smiled and shrugged, “I dunno. I don’t think I’d mind it very much myself.”

She muttered something that he couldn’t hear, then said louder, “Well I’d let you have it all if I could.” 

Another piece of armor fell to the floor and Quintus sighed, turning to her to tell her to be more careful…and then of course his words died in his mouth. Because her armor was off, strewn messily over her bed and floor, and her cheeks were flushed from the exertion as she lay there and – well, he was a man after all.

“Erm…” he paused, stared, then abruptly looked away before he said or did anything he would later regret. He’d made enough of a fool out of himself today, thank you very much.

“I guess I’ll bring you some dinner then?” he asked a little too quickly, and darted out of the room before Wyn could respond, cheeks rearing with heat and looking altogether unkempt. The moment the door was shut, Wyn smirked and loosened the leather ties at the top of her shirt. Quintus was a man, after all. She knew enough about men to know what had brought on that blush and hasty exit.

As she waited for him to return, Wyn shook out her hair and began the lengthy process of running her fingers through the silvery strands. She normally kept it all pulled back into a braid and, when traveling, hardly let it out. It felt absolutely amazing to do so now, after weeks of keeping it tied back. That was how Quintus found her about fifteen minutes later, dressed in her doeskin tunic and leggings with her head bent and hair free.

He’d always thought her coloring was odd. She was so young yet she had silver hair. A product of her birth, she had told him, and Quintus always thought it was a rather lovely thing to inherit. Odd, but lovely.

“Here,” he said, putting a plate down beside her. She hummed lowly but didn’t respond, for she was rather preoccupied with dealing with a particularly large tangle that refused to come out. He watched this struggle for a long moment, then sighed and sank down on the bed behind her. 

“Let me,” he said, batting her impatient fingers away. He hesitated only a moment before replacing them with his and letting them slip through her hair.

Wyn raised an eyebrow but remained still. The last time someone else had touched her hair, she’d been a child and it had been her mother. Such a touch had been more forceful than anything. This was much different. It was gentle in ways Wyn could not describe.

She leaned her head back and allowed his touch even as a part of her shied from it. Something buzzed through her skin and she could not identify it. It was an emotion that she hadn’t felt before in such a startling way, and she found that she rather feared it. Especially because she thought she had an idea as to where it came from.

“You’re very good at this,” she told him after several minutes of delicate, dragging silence. The tangle was slowly loosening with the help of Quintus’s gentle touch. She felt him shift a little behind her.

“Erm…well, back in the Imperial City I was a bit more…sociable,” he faltered and Wyn immediately burst into laughter, glancing behind to give him a wickedly amused smirk.

“You can just say you had more relations with women, Quintus. I’m hardly in any place to judge such things.” Another chuckle, and she melted back into her previous position. Quintus was grateful for this. His cheeks felt hot and he knew he was blushing vividly. But it seemed that his embarrassment was not yet over.

After a moment, Wyn tilted her head curiously and wondered, “But surely you’ve had relations since then. How long have you been in Skyrim?”

His fingers stopped and he spluttered an indignant, “Wh-? I don’t think that’s any of your business! Why are we - ?!”

“I mean, I can’t go more than two months before I go crazy,” she tactless revealed, in such a blasé manner that Quintus gaped at her from behind. “And you’ve been in Skyrim for what…around ten years or so?” 

Here she turned with a smirk and offhandedly said, “You know, I heard Imperial women are awfully submissive in bed. I fear you’ll be in for quite a shock if you ever take a Nord lady to bed, alchemist. They’re animals in comparison.”

His face was so red that Wyn rather thought it looked like he had strewn fire salts over it. She raised an eyebrow and turned back around, gesturing impatiently to her hair. Quintus himself could only sit there in astounded and embarrassed silence before slowly taking up the tangled strands and continuing to work at them. It was nearly an entire minute before he finally answered.

“…First of all, I’ve been here for twelve years. And secondly, I have experienced Nord women before thank you very much. They’re too brash and it made me uncomfortable every single time. And besides, I don’t need such things in order to be happy – “

“Brash?” Wyn asked in wonderment, for she had stopped listening after hearing his description of Nord women. She shrugged and said, “Yes, perhaps. I was with an Imperial man once, you know. He kept asking me if ‘this was alright’ or if he was hurting me. I suppose there’s something wrong with everyone.”

Quintus raised his eyebrows and asked incredulously, “How is that wrong? He was only making sure you were comfortable.”

“Yes, but he _kept_ asking. I don’t think he enjoyed any of it because he was too busy making sure _I_ was satisfied.” 

“Well I think that’s a very selfless thing to do myself – “ he paused when she glanced back with that look, like she was silently judging him, and then he hurried onto say: “Er…not that I would do…that…” His blush flared up again.

Wyn stared at him for a long moment before smirking. Her eyes turned into glimmering mischievous gold. With a chuckle she told him, “And I’m not particularly brash in bed either.”

And that was of course what made Quintus burst into laughter, and for one reason alone: because Wyn was brash in everything and he couldn’t imagine her being any different.

“You?!” he gasped with a grin, and she shoved him playfully back. “I’d be surprised if you _weren’t_ brash – “ And he laughed aloud as she forcefully attacked him with the pillow, laughing all the while and wondering, in some small part of her mind, as to how they had gotten so very _close._

What had begun as a simple journey between merchant and warrior had morphed into something that Wyn couldn’t identify anymore. But what really surprised her was the fact that she didn’t want to know. Because these feelings were sweeter than any she had ever felt and to sour them was a terrible thought.


	24. Silverside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Review/Comment if you're in the mood and thanks for reading! :)

“Are there really 7,000 steps, or is that just an estimate? I mean, Nords don’t actually _know_ how to count, do they?” Quintus muttered to himself bright and early the next day. He and Wyn stood together at the bottom of the mountain. She burst into laughter upon hearing him.

“Careful, alchemist. I have quite a lot of Imperial jokes on hand as well.” She smirked and stepped past him, beginning what would be a very long and very tiring ascent up the mountain.

“Hmph. I’m sure you do,” he said as he followed, having no doubt that her countrymen had just as many insults about Imperials (and the Legion) than his did about them. Imperials were, at present, on the top of the list of hated races to those loyal to Skyrim’s independence. Right after High Elves, who of course earned first place. Though he wasn’t sure whether Wyn herself was particularly loyal to Skyrim. That is to say, she seemed very loyal to _herself,_ and hardly showed interest in such apparently boring things as war.

“High Hrothgar is at the top of the mountain,” Wyn was telling him as they slowly trekked up the steps. Quintus listened, but cast his eyes out over the expanse of Ivarstead below them. It was rather lovely from above, and earned a different sort of reverence that he was all too glad to supply. It sure beat walking through the little hamlet, where the smell of pig and cattle dung cast off any such grandiose feelings.

“Mmm…but we’re going all the way to the summit, right?” he asked, turning away from the view and focusing on not tripping on the jagged stone stair. The last thing he needed was to foolishly tumble all the way back down and have to start over. Wyn would probably be in stitches from laughing at him, too.

She nodded, “Yes.” 

Then she paused, because there was a growing worry in her mind that had been plaguing her for a very long time, ever since the start of their quest in fact. Paarthurnax. Quintus would not understand the dragon’s goodness. He would be terrified, and Wyn would protect him from that if she could. And yet her reluctance also had to do with not wanting to show him another side of the Dragonborn. Was it wrong of her to shield him from that? She hardly knew anymore.

She cleared her throat and slowly suggested, “It will be a treacherous ascent up to the summit. I would feel better if you stayed with the Graybeards and let me go alone.”

It didn’t work and she hadn’t really expected it to. Quintus was stubborn for a shopkeeper, and far more adventurous than he knew. He was a different brand of merchant than the ones she had encountered elsewhere, because he was curious. And curiosity had this way of making you fairly adept at exploration. 

She was not surprised when Quintus responded with an abrupt, “If I wanted to be left behind, I would’ve done it in Ivarstead. I think I’ve more than proven myself on this quest, don’t you?”

She sighed, glanced back at his strong, serious eyes, and agreed, “Yes, of course you have.” 

It was true, but that wouldn’t make it any easier when it came to the confrontation that would no doubt happen atop the summit. She clenched her jaw and wondered if she should sneak up without him. She would wait for the cover of darkness and his own exhaustion to come and then go up alone. He wouldn’t be able to follow. You had to use the Voice to cut through the harsh winds that blocked the pathway, and last she checked he didn’t have it.

She would have to wait until an opportunity arose. And if one did not, then she would simply have to allow him to accompany her and come face to face with Paarthurnax. In truth, Wyn wasn’t entirely sure why she was so adamant against Quintus meeting the ancient dragon. Perhaps there wasn’t a reason at all. She was simply so used to keeping Paarthurnax’s existence a secret that it felt wrong to so callously thrust it into the light.

Up the mountain they trod, winding around treacherous cliffs where the path jutted out a mere three or four feet. They passed pilgrims on their way, though once they reached the colder, more frigid areas they were fewer and more seldom seen. Wyn had walked this path several times over, but Quintus had not, and she took care to make sure he was safe behind her when they passed more dangerous, icy areas. 

The poor Imperial was not made for such cold conditions. His skin was used to the warmth of the sun and the more temperate climate of his homeland. Skyrim offered none of those things, especially up here in the heavy snow banks of the highest mountain in Tamriel.

“Careful now!” Wyn shouted above the piercing wind. Snow had begun to fall and was already coating her hood and eyelashes. She knew they were more than half way up and were lucky in a way that it was storming, because the animals and wild beasts had all gone into hiding from the elements. Of course the snow and wind would only slow their progress that much more, and for an Imperial, that was practically suicide.

She was worried for him, that much was obvious. Quintus knew it even in his hazy, foggy brain. He didn’t know how bad the cold was though, for he had stopped feeling it. He couldn’t actually feel anything now, and that was what frightened him. He couldn’t even feel Wyn’s hand as she clasped it firmly to his elbow and dragged him forward, muttering darkly to herself and looking absolutely pristine. The cold obviously had very little effect on her thick skin and thicker blood.

He let her drag him forward, not having the strength to stop her anyhow, for all his muscles seemed to have melted right off his bones. His feet were chunks of ice that stumbled along the path, managing to trip on every bumpy surface available to him. He was able to stay on his feet fairly well though, at least until his foot caught a particularly jagged stone and he was sent flying forward with an embarrassing grunt. 

Wyn whirled around with a surprised expression just as he stumbled into her. Her arms instinctively came up to clutch at him, catching him before he could land face first into a snow drift. For a moment they just stood there clutching each other, too surprised to do anything else. Quintus’s face was pressed rather uncomfortably against the armor that covered her chest and collar, and despite the cold he somehow managed to blush a very heady blush because it was such an inappropriate position. (He was a _gentleman!)_

Wyn herself was simply surprised because the whole thing had happened so quickly. After a drawn out minute of confusing silence, she grasped his shoulder and pulled him up, raising an eyebrow as she did. Her golden, all knowing eyes searched his face and the blush that he was so obviously wearing. And then she smirked, a slight quirk of her mouth that made her eyes burn with such mischievous light he could barely breathe. His throat closed and he stared at her in wonder, suddenly very aware of their proximity and of the way his heart felt as if it was bursting from his chest.

It was no place for kisses. They both knew it. And besides, Wyn was still worried about Quintus and all this cold. They really shouldn’t have wasted a single second, for his own sake, and yet – yet somehow she couldn’t bring herself to move away from him. Little snowflakes had gathered on his brow and eyelashes, dusting over his hair. She reached up to brush those flakes away, brushing her finger over his head and gently flicking the snow off of him. She couldn’t deny that she wanted to kiss him badly, but she also knew that it was very stupid to stand there in the middle of a raging storm atop a treacherous mountain in which all manners of beast made their home. 

And so after another moment, she said, “We must continue on. It isn’t safe to linger, and High Hrothgar is very close.” 

And so it was. They traveled another half a mile, winding around the final spiral of the mountain, and then saw the sight of the temple nestled starkly into the white cliffs. It was surely a vision that had Quintus sighing out in relief. The thought of warm fires and hot food made him very happy indeed.

They stumbled up the final slight of stairs (Quintus was so sick of stairs that he could have done without them for the rest of his life) and threw the doors open. He wondered if perhaps it was a little rude, strutting into the temple without knocking. But then again this wasn’t just any pilgrim, it was the _Dragonborn,_ and she deserved special privileges in this place at least.

Special privileges they received, though such things seemed very simple in many ways. The Graybeards were a simple group after all, but Quintus had a feeling that he should be grateful for being able to stay there at all. Imagine! Him, at High Hrothgar, the oldest and highest and most well known temple in Tamriel! With the Dragonborn! He could faint from all the excitement. (And the cold and hunger too.)

“And so the Dragonborn arrives, from the belly of a storm that causes the very mountain to tremble at its depth,” came a voice, and Quintus looked up to see an old man with a long beard approach. He was dressed in robes and had shining, brilliant blue eyes that seemed to see into the very darkest part of him. It was his voice, however, that made Quintus pause. Such a powerful voice, surging and tripping with bold force. It almost seemed to make time stand still.

“The storm wasn’t my doing, you know,” was all Wyn said in return, her eyes shining with a mirth that Quintus rarely saw there, to that great extent. She smiled and stepped forward, clasping the old monk’s shoulder and saying, “This is Quintus Navale. He is an alchemist out of Windhelm.” Wyn turned, caught his eye, and gestured for him to step forward. He did, if not a little cautiously.

“Erm…good evening,” he greeted, not really knowing what one said to a Graybeard in High Hrothgar. 

Apparently it was good enough, for the monk nodded pleasantly and said, “Welcome. The evening meal has already been served, but I’m sure something can be prepared. This way.”

He led them deeper into the temple, to a large living area where a fire crackled merrily in a large hearth. Wyn plopped down without ceremony, having been here time and time again. Quintus, however, loitered a little bit, politely waiting for the older man to sit first as was per custom. Awkwardly, he sat down on a hard stone chair, watching Wyn as she boldly reached for a bowl of stew and a clean spoon. Arngeir, as the Graybeard introduced himself, watched her without a word, as if it was normal to help yourself to food in another’s home. Nords and their manners. 

“Here,” Wyn said, abruptly shoving a bowl into his hands and sending him a callous smile. 

He rolled his eyes and then turned to the monk, “Thank you for the meal.” Wyn merely grunted in agreement and dug in.

“We’ll leave tomorrow,” she said around a mouthful of food. Arngeir nodded and leaned back in his chair, watching the two of them eat. Quintus was a little bit uncomfortable under that watchful gaze. It was as if Arngeir could see secrets and a great many other things they tried to keep hidden. Quintus just focused on eating instead, and didn’t look up from his bowl.

“Will you go to see Paarthurnax before you leave?” the monk wondered, and out of the corner of his eye, Quintus saw Wyn stiffen. He observed her quietly, confused at such a response, and didn’t miss the look she sent Arngeir. It was a ‘shut up and stop talking’ kind of look. Which of course only piqued his curiosity.

“Who’s that?” Quintus asked before the conversation could be forced elsewhere. He met Wyn’s eyes stoutly and she sighed.

“…He’s the one who gave me this,” she showed him her palm, and he remembered the conversation they’d had all those weeks ago about her master and her lack of passion. With wide eyes, Quintus leaned in to get a better look at the puckered flesh. The burn mark covered the entirety of her palm and even drifted down to her wrist a little bit. It seemed darker in the dim light, as if the wound was fresh. 

“And will you? Go and see him?” Quintus found himself asking, almost in a daze as he quietly broke the soft atmosphere. This time, he didn’t see the exasperated look that Wyn sent Arngeir. 

She turned her palm back over, hiding the burn from his eyes. “There are several things I should tell you while we have time…in private, please Arngeir.” They both watched silently as the old monk grumbled and swept from the room, but not before sending Wyn a look that Quintus could not decipher. He didn’t have to though, for Wyn explained it all a moment later.

“He doesn’t want me to tell you about Paarthurnax,” she admitted. “The greybeards are fiercely protective of him. Arngeir wouldn’t even tell me about him at first.”

Quintus frowned at that. “Why? Is there something wrong with him?” 

But Wyn merely shook her head with a quirky smile, caught his eye, and told him, “No…there’s nothing wrong with him. He’s as normal as a dragon could be. Heavy conversationalist, enjoys his little dominion on the highest peak…very normal, that.”

Quintus, feeling dazed, shrugged and said, “Well that sounds – did you just say dragon?!” For he hadn’t quite heard that word as she was saying it, and only now that he was processing it all did he catch it. He gaped at her blasé expression and spluttered incredulously, “Are you trying to tell me that the leader of the Greybeards is a _fire breathing dragon?!”_

Please say no, he thought. Please say no – 

“Yes,” Wyn said with a completely uninterested shrug. The look was so familiar on her that it made Quintus tip his head back with a groan. He was all too used to such a situation (that is, Wyn shocking him and not seeming to be bothered by it), and yet he was still surprised. Who wouldn’t be? Dragons were beasts, not teachers. Or at least that was what he had been raised to think.

Quintus laughed, feeling a little bit insane. Maybe he had really gone off the deep end. Maybe he’d been like this for years and hadn’t realized – maybe that was why he’d had to go all the way to Skyrim in order to find a master who actually wanted him – 

“Quintus. Quintus,” Wyn said, softly chanting his name. She leaned forward to grasp his shoulders, shaking him gently to get his attention. He was still chuckling. He stopped when he realized how crazy it sounded.

“I should have told you…” she muttered to herself, and Quintus immediately felt annoyance at her words. She should have told him? Hah! There were many things she _should have_ told him and hadn’t – it was the story of their relationship, the core of it. He scowled.

“Alright. So the leader of the Greybeards is actually a real life dragon. You’re the Dragonborn, you’re allowed your secrets, right? I’m just a backwater alchemist from a racist city. It makes sense that you wouldn’t bother telling me anything important – “

“Quintus,” Wyn interrupted, and Quintus paused for one reason and one alone: the fierce look in Wyn’s eyes was on he had never seen before. And it was directed at him. Her fingers clenched down on his shoulders, then she shifted them to his neck. He swallowed thickly at the feeling of her fingertips lightly trailing over his skin. Cupping his face like that felt so natural and endearing that neither of them could breathe properly.

“Quintus,” she repeated, only to buy herself a little more time. Wyn didn’t do emotions. She didn’t do human things. In many ways she regarded herself as a beast, a dragon. She acted like one more often than not. She cared little of romantic things and had geared herself more toward quick couplings that allowed her to assert her own dominance over her partners. Romance never factored into the equation…until now.

Her fingers gently stroked the side of his face, grazing over the stubble on his cheeks. He hadn’t shaved since Ivarstead and it was starting to show. He looked rugged, nothing like the sophisticated merchant of Windhelm. No, now he was dirty and his eyes were fiery and his entire countenance had changed, shifted some degrees over. No longer was he the calm and stable man of a few weeks ago, but a warrior in his own right, at least where it counted the most.

“I…” she took a breath and tried again. “I have trouble…understanding my emotions. I can’t express myself in words. But if you’ll let me, I will try.”

He sat very still, very much aware of the proximity of their bodies. The space between them was minimal at best, a mere span of inches. He could feel her breath on his cheeks, her warmth, the essence of her body near his. It made him feel charged, shaken like a leaf in a storm. Suddenly he was worried over what she would say.

She stared straight into his eyes, opened her mouth, and then shut it again and looked away. It was so unlike her that Quintus felt himself faltering too. Her boldness was usually what instigated the situations they got into, for better or for worse. He had to remind himself that this boldness was merely a front, a mask to hid away all of her uncertainty. Her grasp of human emotions was startlingly low, a trait that oftentimes surprised him.

She took a deep breath and looked at him once more. Then she said words that Quintus would never forget, not ever.

“You were never a backwater alchemist to me. You’re one of the brightest, most inquisitive men I know and I…I love you for that.” A lovely blush colored her cheeks. Quintus stared in shock, his mouth dropping. She cleared her throat and swept on, her words hurried and fast, as if she wanted to get them out before her courage failed.

“I love the look you get in your eyes when you talk about alchemy, the way you get excited about a root of all things! How you can name all the characteristics of a plant and everything it could possibly be used for – “

“That’s just my profession though, of course I’d be excited about – “

Wyn frowned at him for interrupting. Before he could finish his own sentence, she pushed herself forward and very suddenly took him off guard. His back flew against the stone chair, his face contorting into surprise as Wyn settled herself onto his lap. Her knees rested just beside his thighs, her fingers pushed against his mouth to stop him from talking. Her face lingered very close, so close that Quintus could not breathe, could not think, couldn’t even see anything except for her.

“Let me finish, alchemist,” she whispered, and he swallowed. How could he let her finish, when every word she said made him feel like he was dying and living all at once? She loved him? Impossible. Beautiful. Amazing. 

“I’m not sure if this is what love feels like,” she said quietly, pressing her forehead against his. “All I know is that every time you’re near, I want to kiss you.”

His eyes fluttered. He felt cold and hot and trembling. Was he sick? Was the mountain’s altitude getting to his head? Or was it just Wyn, hovering over him, telling him things he wouldn’t have ever allowed himself to dream of…lips lingering so very close, eyes demanding and soft at the same time…waiting. She was waiting for him.

He looked into those golden eyes of her and searched for something to say. Nothing came to him. Silence cascaded around them, settling between the cracks of their bodies, the slivers of their emotions. Soon it would become awkward and the moment would pass them by without return. Quintus knew this. And that was why he decided that words were just silly, and that sometimes it was better to act brash and bold.

His fingers curled around her wrist, dragging her hand away from his mouth. Gently, he touched her hand, cradling it in his with a softness that made her stare. His other hand slowly reached for her cheek and cupped it, brushing his thumb very gently over her lips. She trembled beneath his touch, lowering her face ever closer…until at last their mouths touched.

Quintus immediately sighed and sunk deeper into the chair, feeling as if his entire body had turned to mush somewhere between ‘I want to kiss you’ and the actual act. He grasped her harder, pulling her down into his lap and pressing her to his chest. She came willingly, her mouth moving so furiously with his that Quintus could only sit there and try his best to be just as furious, just as bold. And he was, really. His hunger for her had only grown over the last few weeks. He wanted her just as badly as she wanted him.

The fire crackled gently, warming the couple with its soft rays of light. Quintus’s hands shifted down to her waist, tracing over her back and pulling her nearer. She moaned very lightly, moving her hips over his lower body. The action had Quintus gasping, fingers digging into her shirt, legs shifting apart. He hadn’t given into such impulses for many months. It was only natural to feel such a strong desire, and yet for some reason that desire went above and beyond what was normal. It was like a fire had been lit beneath his heart and all his passion had been unleashed.

“Wyn…” he murmured, voice ragged and throaty. His mouth ducked down to her neck, kissing over her skin. He swallowed thickly, trying to recollect his thoughts. This wasn’t how a gentleman acted. He shouldn’t take advantage of her…yet it was so hard to see reason, especially when she seemed all too willing.

Willing was an understatement. Wyn’s fingers flew to his shirt, untying the leather ties at the neck and loosening them. He let her, his mind too hazy to stop. Indeed he wanted to continue, wanted nothing more than to lay her down and show her all of his impatience and ragged emotions. (Everything that she was the reason for, that is.) But a part of him couldn’t allow it. This was Wyn and he wanted to do it right.

“Wyn, stop,” he whispered against her mouth, and she did. With an immediacy that left him miles behind.

The moment the word had left his mouth, she broke the kiss, stared at him, and quickly stood up. It didn’t take a genius to realize that she had taken his order as a form of rejection. Her reaction was endearing, innocent almost. He stood up too, reaching for her before she could escape him and close herself off.

“We have to take this slow,” he hurriedly said, grasping her hands in the both of his. “For my own sake,” he added gently. 

It was true at least. He needed to go slow for himself most of all. He wasn’t used to the intensity of his feelings for her. He wanted the moment of their coupling to be equally intense. Not haphazard or impulsive, but slow and progressive and explosive.

She paused, clenching her hands over his. For a moment Quintus thought she looked utterly pure, childish even. Perhaps she was in some ways. Perhaps that was all the better. He was, too.

Quintus stepped forward and slid his hand around her waist carefully, not used to being able to touch her so freely. She shifted closer to him and rested her hands on his chest, playing with the loose ties of his shirt. 

“Wyn, I want you just as much as you want me. But I’m an Imperial. We do things a little differently than brash Nords.” At this she chuckled, golden eyes glowing with mirth, and he knew that they were on equal footing. With a laugh Quintus said, “Let me get used to this…and to the feelings you make me feel.”

It was as close to a confession that he’d allow for tonight, but that was just fine. Wyn smiled and nodded, looking youthful, lovely. He touched her cheek and smiled back, feeling more at peace with himself than he had all month. But then his thoughts turned to the dragon somewhere above them, lurking atop the mountain, and he frowned.

“This Paarthurnax…” Quintus slowly began, and Wyn stiffened a little in his arms. “You aren’t planning on running along without me, are you? This quest is important to me. I’d like to be the one to get the unmelting snow.” She sighed.

“It is tempting,” she muttered, and Quintus frowned at her. Rolling her eyes, Wyn told him, “Fine. I won’t go without you. Paarthurnax won’t hurt you. He’s very…accommodating.” She smirked at him and reached for his shirt, tying it back together with easy, unemotional movements. He chuckled as she did, amused that she could be flustered one moment and back to her usual self the next. That was going to take some getting used to, as well.

She glanced at him and sighed, her fingers slipping away from the ties to lay flat against his chest. After a moment, she murmured, “I just hope I don’t frighten you tomorrow. I won’t be Wyn, I’ll be the Dragonborn.” And she didn’t want to show him all the ugly, rough sides of her.

But Quintus merely smiled and leaned in to press his mouth against her cheek, closing his eyes and inhaling the leather-and-wilderness scent of her. In a soft voice, he told her, “I’m tougher than I look.” And he was. 

As they prepared for sleep, both were wide awake and nervously thinking thoughts centered not on dragons and quests, but something much more frightening: love.


	25. White Cap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Paarthurnax makes his entrance and basically acts like an overbearing father figure intent on making Wyn admit she's in a relationship. Because in my story he's apparently like that. Next chapter will be up soon!

Quintus slept in the next morning. By the time he awoke, the morning was well on its way and Wyn was nowhere to be found. Her bed was empty, though her belongings were still messily strewn beside it. That didn’t exactly calm his nerves.

Indeed, he was nervous for two reasons. The first had everything to do with the fear that she had left him behind and went up to the top of the mountain alone. The second was of a far more personal nature. He hadn’t felt this anxious to see a woman since he’d been a young lad in the Imperial City. He felt so nervous that his fingers shook.

“Get a hold of yourself, you fool,” he muttered to himself, throwing the blankets off and standing up. He was being ridiculous. But then he remembered Wyn’s mouth on his, her eager moan, the way she’d moved her hips – “For Arkay’s sake!” he exclaimed, and nearly threw himself out of the room, and the too-close memories which were already taking their toll on his body.

He found her quite by chance, following the sound of her lilting voice. The temple was simple and relatively small. It was easy to walk through, though Quintus took his time. His heart was hammering against his chest as if it was searching for a way out and his fingers still shook.

She was eating breakfast with the Greybeards in the dining hall. For a moment, Quintus halted in the doorway to look at her. She was sitting in a streak of pale morning light that wavered down from the windows above. Her silvery hair looked crisp white and unnaturally lovely. Her golden eyes looked dark brown, like aged honey. And then she saw him, and he couldn’t wait any longer.

“Good morning,” he said, feeling a little bit awkward. Did she remember their kiss as vividly as he did? Was he simply being childish? Wyn’s expression was calm, neutral, and totally blasé as usual. But the smile she sent him after a moment of tranquil observation told him everything he needed to know: she wouldn’t close herself off like she’d done before. At least not completely.

He stepped into the room. Wyn stood and offered him a bowl of leftover stew. “Good morning to you as well, alchemist,” she said with a tiny smirk.

He shifted uncomfortably, cleared his throat, and sat down in one of those uncomfortable stone chairs. He regretted it the moment he did, for Wyn’s eyes flashed over his form in such a calmly provocative way that he had to bite down hard on his tongue to avoid choking on his food.

“I was just telling the Dragonborn that the weather today is ideal for the journey up the mountain,” Arngeir said, wisely choosing not to comment of the charged atmosphere between the two. Quintus swallowed a mouthful of stew and glanced at Wyn, only to find that she had turned her attention elsewhere. 

“Do you still have that old thing?” she asked with a raised eyebrow, standing up with a flourish of her black cape. Quintus took a brief moment to admire the shape of her body. She was wearing that tight black armor again and looked divine. He wondered if she was aware of what she could do to a man, just by walking passed. 

His thoughts shattered when Arngeir harrumphed and said, “That _old thing_ is a priceless artifact! Of course we still have it!”

Wyn rolled her eyes, stepping up to an odd looking carved horn and taking it from its pedestal in the corner of the room. She hummed, turning it over in her hands and brushing her fingers against the carvings. The way she held it made Quintus wonder how she’d come across it previously.

“Oh come now, Arngeir,” Wyn said with a laugh, “You don’t have to keep this around for my sake. I’d tell you to sell it to Calixto but…I killed him a while ago. Shame.”

Quintus snorted and Wyn shot him an amused look. He was intimately aware of the killings in Windhelm. The Dragonborn had dealt with them several months before Wyn had entered his shop and agreed to go treasure hunting for his master. To hear her speak so callously of the caustic situation was amusing in its own right. He needed a good laugh to cut through all his nervousness.

Arngeir wasn’t amused of course. With a couple of long strides that actually surprised Quintus very much (he seemed very old, really), Arngeir snatched the horn away from Wyn and set it delicately back on its pedestal. “That is an ancient relic, as you well know,” he told her with a frown. When she didn’t look very remorseful, Arngeir sighed and said, “You should have more respect for your past deeds. If you hadn’t gone and recovered this, events may not have progressed as smoothly as they did.” 

The words appeared to have little effect on Wyn, but she did nod a bit mischievously at her old master to show she’d heard. Quintus hardly noticed, for he was busy trying to decipher Arngeir’s words. What events was he speaking of, and why had Wyn needed to recover such a ceremonial artifact in the first place? He dearly wanted to ask, but Wyn beat him to it. She was well aware of the curious look on his face and knew what he wanted to know.

With a chuckle, she gestured for him to follow her. He stood slowly, unsure of what she was going to do. But she merely began to walk back to their sleeping quarters, no doubt intent on preparing for the trip up the mountain. 

As they stepped into the large hallway, she glanced at him and said, “That was the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller. Arngeir had me retrieve it as the final stage of my initiation into this temple. So I got to the ruins where the horn was and singlehandedly killed every draugr inside – only to find that some bitch had already taken the horn and left a note in its place. Addressed to the Dragonborn.” 

She winked at Quintus, smirking at his expression. He looked like a boy eager to listen to his father’s tales of knights and kingdoms. He was even leaning in a little bit, eyes glazed over as he concentrated, supremely interested in her story. A story that he had been wanting to hear for many weeks now. She never spoke of her adventures. To hear her do so now made him feel almost giddy.

“So? Who was the note from?” he prompted when she didn’t immediately continue. Wyn laughed and shrugged, calmly stepping into the sleeping quarters and strolling to her pack. 

As she bent to unlatch it, she told him, “A woman named Delphine. She was a Blade. Probably still is. We didn’t get along.”

Quintus raised an eyebrow as he reached for his leather cuirass. He watched Wyn out of the corner of his eye as she riffled through her pack, reorganizing it and checking their food stores. As he fiddled with the clasps on the side of his armor, he asked, “Why?” 

He was honestly curious, but there was another reason for breaking the silences. Inside, he was desperate to keep the conversation going, if only to divert his attention from the memories of last night.

Wyn hummed and idly answered, “She told me to kill a dragon.”

He frowned in confusion and said, “But why would that upset you? You already kill dragons anyway. What’s one more?”

His words made her stiffen, and he instantly regretted them. She turned to glance at him. He was surprised at the coldness in those eyes, which were usually so warm and heated he felt burned whenever he looked upon them. 

She sighed, “That was exactly what Delphine said. But I don’t kill dragons because people tell me to. I kill them because if I didn’t, people would die.”

Silence cascaded around them. They stared at each other for a long minute, then Quintus nodded slowly in understanding. It made sense that Wyn would say something like that. She never did anything because she was told to do it. In fact, she was precisely the sort of person who would do the opposite just to spite the one trying to order her around.  
Wyn gave him a rather dry smile and turned back to her pack, muttering, “Besides, the dragon she wanted me to kill was Paarthurnax. I would not murder the one responsible for giving me hope of a dragon’s goodness. If not for him, I’m sure I would have strayed from the honorable path long ago.”

Quintus hummed, half listening to her and half concentrating on getting to the last buckle. It was in a frankly ridiculous spot, under his arm and shifted toward the back of his armor. He always struggled with it.

“I’m glad you haven’t,” he told her as he tried and failed to slip the buckle in place. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have gone to retrieve the White Phial, and we never would have met.” He was so concentrated on the armor that he didn’t even notice Wyn staring at him, her eyes soft and expression fond. 

She chuckled at his failed attempts, amused. When he heard the laughter, Quintus glowered at her, expecting to see her sitting on the bed beside her pack where she’d been before. But instead she was standing right in front of him, having moved so quickly that he hardly even noticed. He jerked back responsively, only for her hands to clench down on his shoulders and stop him.

“Let me,” she said with laughing eyes. Moments later, she was easily sliding the buckle into place with a snap, and then realizing a bit too late that she was very close to him. A fact that Quintus seemed to be very much aware of because his eyes strayed to the stone chair he’d sat in last night. When they’d kissed. She smirked and the sight of it made Quintus tear his eyes to safer things, horrified at being caught remembering.

“It will be very cold on the peak,” she murmured to him, taking her time as she double checked all the other buckles of his armor. Her fingers flew to each one, and though he couldn’t feel her touch through the thick leather, that certainly didn’t stop him from imagining it. He swallowed back a wave of newfound desire and looked away, neither encouraging nor stopping her.

She raised her eyebrow at this and softly said, “Since we’re so warm now, I’m sure you wouldn’t begrudge me this.” And then suddenly her fingers were slipping around his jaw and her mouth was intimately pressing against his own, and Quintus could scarcely imagine a better moment than this. He wrapped his arms around her, pulled her closer, and returned the kiss.

She smiled against his mouth and whispered, “I like this.” And he wasn’t sure what exactly she was talking about – the kiss itself, the intimacy – but he smiled back anyway and whispered, “Me too.” 

And that kiss warmed them even as they began the frigid ascent to the peak of the mountain, climbing the treacherous windy pathways.

It was tiring for the both of them. Quintus, because once again he felt that his thin skin was inadequate against this blistering cold. Wyn, because using her voice so many times tired her. But it was the only way to clear the path, to send the wind away, and she could suffer a sore throat for a few days if it meant she could get them both safely to the top.

They did get there safely, though not without much cursing and exhaustion on Wyn’s part and much more shivering and teeth rattling on Quintus’s. It was midday by the time they stumbled into the vast clearing atop the Throat of the World. They were hungry from the ascent and tired, but neither of those things could be addressed just yet. Paarthurnax wasn’t the type to be kept waiting.

Quintus had prepared himself all night and all morning for this moment, but he still felt wholly unprepared at the sight of the massive dragon. He had only seen a real dragon one other time outside of Windhelm. The beast was enormous, easily bigger than his shop, with a wingspan that could’ve stretched from the Stone Quarter to the Hall of the Dead without breaking a sweat. As he stood gaping in two foot deep snow, a new sort of appreciation began to creep over him. Being the Dragonborn must’ve been a lot harder than he’d originally thought. He couldn’t imagine fighting such creatures.

Wyn stepped forward just as the dragon swung its massive head toward them. The eyes were gold, bright and scintillating. The air around the creature seemed to pulse, as if it was entirely made of magic. Perhaps it was. After all, it was a supposedly magical creature of myth, right?

“Ahh… **Dovahkiin.** It has been many moons since last we shared **tinvaak,”** [1] the great dragon said. His voice was distinctly male and very slow, shrouded in wisdom and ancient power. Shivers ran through Quintus at the sound of it, so deep and dangerous. In one move, they could be dead. He knew that this dragon was unlike its destructive peers, but that didn’t stop him from feeling afraid. He was only a merchant after all. What did he know of beasts and warrior-like things?

But Wyn seemed comfortable. Her face was tranquil, smooth as always. Her matching golden eyes pierced right into the dragon’s, and after a short pause she said, “Paarthurnax.”  
The dragon blinked at her, his golden eyes sweeping over the two of them curiously. Wyn wasn’t particularly surprised – dragons were unendingly curious, and she had never brought anyone along with her to visit him before. 

“…This is Quintus,” Wyn said after a beat of silence, broken only by the rigged shift of the wind as it tumbled through the mountain pass. It was colder up here, in these higher altitudes. Even Wyn’s Nord blood didn’t protect her from the chill, and she knew that Quintus must be freezing. When she glanced over at him though, he seemed perfectly fine and it made her smile slightly. Her alchemist always surprised her.

Paarthurnax noticed her quiet smile and a great rumbling noise sounded through the clearing. At first Wyn worried that the grey skies overhead were finally turning against them, but then she realized that the sound had come from the dragon himself. He was laughing at them! She raised an eyebrow skeptically, unsure as to where his amusement was coming from.

“I see you’ve finally begun learning the ways of **yol,** fire. Is this your **ahmul, Dovahkiin?”** the great dragon asked. Wyn thought he sounded far more mischievous than a huge winged creature ought to sound. His question naturally made her start coughing in her surprise.

 **Ahmul?** Her mate? She stared at the dragon, who blinked back with amusement. His golden eyes gleamed with it. He was _teasing_ her! She scowled at him and turned to glance surreptitiously at Quintus, who looked confused. He was looking at her with his head tilted a bit to the side. He couldn’t be sure, but it almost looked as if she was blushing – though he didn’t know if her reddened cheeks were a byproduct of the temperature or of something else.

Wyn glowered at the dragon. “No. Talos. I knew I should’ve left him behind…” she muttered to herself, then said in a louder voice, “We’ve come for some snow. Then we’ll be off.”

The dragon tilted his great head. If it were possible, and dragons had eyebrows, Paarthurnax probably would have raised them at her. 

“Snow? Has the **yol** addled your brain? Why do you need snow from my mountain?” the dragon wondered.

Quintus, who was watching their strange conversation from several steps back, cleared his throat at the question and staunchly said, “It’s not just any snow! It’s _unmelting_ snow. I need it for a recipe – “

Paarthurnax rumbled again and interrupted, “A recipe with snow? Perhaps you should begin learning a new path, **Dovahkiin.”**

Wyn rolled her eyes. “Quintus is an alchemist. We’re on a quest to repair something. We need unmelting snow to do it, and your mountain is the only place in Skyrim that has it.” The explanation was quick and brief. She didn’t want to linger here, in this frigid cold. Was it so wrong that she worried about her alchemist? She didn’t want him to get frostbite. And – besides, her own fingers were beginning to grow numb anyway.

Paarthurnax snorted. “Alchemist. A root collector? A wielder of dark magicks? This is your **ahmul?”**

She could have groaned and smashed her head into the rock nearby. With a impatient sigh, Wyn said, “He’s not my **ahmul!** And he doesn’t deal in dark magic.”

Paarthurnax blinked at her. “Ah…very well then. Will you exchange **tinvaak** with me while your root collector searches for his special snow? It’s been many moons since last you visited.”

Wyn sighed again. Quintus sighed too, but he was slightly less vocal about his impatience. He didn’t want to anger the dragon. Wyn claimed that he was a good one (whatever that meant), but a dragon was still a dragon, right? They still had the potential to be cruel and power hungry, didn’t they?

He would just have to suffer his newfound title for a while longer – though the phrase root collector made him want to lash out and correct the dragon, he dared not to. Let Wyn be the one to deal with the beast while he went to look for the snow. That was how they usually did it anyway. She dealt with the dangerous things, and he did what he was best at. In this cast, collect snow.

He understood why the dragon was so skeptical about that. It _did_ sound rather mental, especially when half of Skyrim was covered in the stuff.

As Wyn spoke with the dragon, Quintus went off to search for the ingredient. He had imagined that this step of their journey would be the easiest. Of course he hadn’t realized that a humongous dragon would be guarding the mountain…or that the mountain would be so very large…or that the unmelting snow would look exactly like all the other snow.  
Couldn’t it…sparkle or something? Why did everything have to look so _white?_ This was going to take a while…

Wyn kept a weathered eye on him as she watched Quintus trudge through the snow. Though she was worried about the temperature, it was probably just as well that he came along with her. Now that she was here on the summit, there was no obvious sign of the unmelting snow. If anyone was going to find it, it was Quintus himself. She just hoped he didn’t lose a few fingers while he did. (She rather liked his hands.)

Paarthurnax grumbled out something that sounded suspiciously like a laugh, and Wyn turned to glower at him. The dragon just blinked his golden gaze at her and grumbled again, this time saying, “You can deny it all you like, **Dovahkiin.** I know a bonded **ahmul** when I see one. You have come far in your studies.”

Wyn sighed. She reached up to rub her forehead and bit out, “For the last time, Paarthurnax, Quintus is not my **_ahmul – “_**

“Humans are strange creatures,” the dragon rumbled sagely, blinking over at the huddled form of Quintus, whose search had taken him fifteen or so feet away. The howling wind made it impossible to hear the crunch of his boots in the snow or the impatient muttering she knew he was spewing. The great beast at her side turned back to spear her with a cursory glance and slowly finished, as was his way, “They say no when they mean yes, and always ignore the obvious. I can sense the bond, **Dovahkiin.”**

Wyn stared at the dragon with a raised brow. Bond or not, she hadn’t realized that dragons could sense something like that – if indeed there was such a connection between them. A mating bond was a potent thing to dragonkind. They often only mated with one other throughout their long lives, unless that bond was broken by death. But she _wasn’t_ bonded to Quintus. They had only kissed a few scant times!

Paarthurnax rumbled again, no doubt at the baffled look on Wyn’s usually expressionless face. He hummed and explained, “It is not a true bond, **Dovahkiin.** Only half of one. You’ve claimed him without even realizing it, haven’t you? You’ve much to learn still…”

Wyn shook her head and muttered, “Are you saying I’ve claimed Quintus’s soul?”

Paarthurnax looked over at her alchemist with a contemplative expression and blinked. “It appears so. You’ve yet to turn it to a **jahrii,** a full bond. Once you truly mate with him he will be yours completely.”

To her horror, Wyn felt her cheeks grow a little warm. Why was she talking about this with Paarthurnax, of all creatures? She must be going crazy…yet the dragon by her side merely rumbled again as if laughing at her, and didn’t seem at all fazed by their conversation. Dragons were remarkably blasé, after all. 

Wyn was about to ask him to explain this all to her again (how had she accidentally entered into a partial bond with Quintus?) when her alchemist let out an excited exclamation and broke through her thoughts. She turned on her heel, her hand flying to the hilt of her sword – but her quick reflexes were unnecessary. Quintus was not in danger. It looked as if he’d finally found the snow. Wyn let out a sigh of relief and hurried toward him.

When she reached his side, she saw that he was scooping some of the snow into the small leather satchel he’d brought along for this exact purpose. Not knowing how much he’d need, he filled the satchel as full as he could and tied the ends shut with a triumphant look on his face. Wyn pursed her mouth when he turned to her.

“…Are you sure - ?”

“Yes!” he snapped at her, though not so much with anger as with impatience. He wrinkled his nose at her and explained, “Here, hold some in your hand. It won’t melt.”

Wyn raised an eyebrow as he scooped up a small handful and dumped it into her hand without preamble. She closed her fingers around it, feeling the snow pack itself around her grasp. It was cold, and unless she was mistaken, it felt almost as if it was washed through with some sort of enchantment, for it pulsed against her skin as if it were somehow alive. 

It was the strangest experience she’d ever had.

“…Well, that’s…” she trailed off, eyeing the unmelting snow distrustfully, as if it was going to jump out at her and bite her. Quintus snorted back a laugh and stood up.

“It’s fascinating!” he exclaimed. His voice was deeply set in an excited voice that spoke volumes as to the alchemical intricacies he was no doubt pondering. Wyn grunted and eyed him, overturning her hand and letting the snow fall.

Her fingers felt like they’d been bitten by several ice wraith, and as her gaze zeroed in on Quintus’s bare hands, she realized that his looked even worse. With a start, she wondered if he’d been going around testing all the snow on this mountain without gloves, just to see if it would melt or not. It wasn’t the best way of going about such things…but, well, Wyn couldn’t say she was surprised. When it came to alchemy, Quintus didn’t balk at getting his hands a little dirty, as she’d learned many times during the last few weeks.

She reached for his hands and pulled them between her own, jerking a little at just how cold they felt, even compared to hers! He was positively freezing, and worse still, he didn’t even seem to realize it. Having lived in cold climates all her life, Wyn knew this was a bad sign.

“Come along, alchemist,” she said, tying the leather satchel to her belt. Quintus allowed her, looking a little caught off guard at the way she had grasped his hands. He blinked at her and nearly jerked when she reached forward to grab at him again, her fingers sliding into his. He wasn’t usually so jumpy…but then again, Wyn wasn’t usually so touchy feely.  
But she didn’t want him to fall behind, not now. She wasn’t sure how long they’d been up here on the summit, but it was long enough to incur nature’s wrath upon her poor alchemist. Getting him warm and dry was her first priority now.

“Ah… **Dovahkiin.** Your **ahmul** looks a little chilled,” Paarthurnax rumbled as they approached. Wyn threw the dragon an impatient glower but didn’t reply, too caught up in making sure Quintus didn’t trip over the two foot snow blocking their way.

Paarthurnax didn’t seem to mind her lack of reply. He filled the silence well enough when he said, “You are learning the ways of **Yol,** are you not? Warm him up a little.”

At this, Wyn paused and eyed her dragon mentor with a raised brow. “Warm him up? What if I set him on fire?” She’d never directed her Voice to anyone without the intention of harming them, after all. But Quintus’s fingers were ice beneath hers…

At her question, Paarthurnax rumbled again, this time in what Wyn suspected was laughter. His solution was a simple, “Push him in the snow.” She gave him a deadpan look and rolled her eyes.

“Now that you are deeper on the path of **Yol,** you must practice controlling it. Next time I see you, Dovahkiin, I expect more,” the dragon said by way of goodbye, and flapped his great wings before taking off into the sky, turning up snow as if trying to create his own miniature storm.

Wyn coughed and narrowed her eyes on his figure, which was slowly disappearing into the clouds. She grumbled to herself about dragons and Quintus quipped a smile.  
“High Hrothgar isn’t too far away,” he reasoned, patting her hand. “I’m sure I’ll be fine. Let’s go.”

Wyn nodded and together, they trudged down from the summit. Her life was truly odd.

Later on, when Quintus was wrapped up in more blankets than he thought possible and Wyn had shoved him rather unceremoniously toward the fire, he thought to ask, “What does **ahmul** mean?”

He thought it strange that Wyn would blush quite so brightly, or scurry away quite so quickly, until he posed the same question to Arngeir, who upon being asked took one look at him and broke out into a smile.

“Ah…” the Graybeard murmured, looking oddly pleased for some reason. He studied Quintus with a gleam in his eye and chuckled. “I shouldn’t be surprised that Paarthurnax would reach such a conclusion. It means ‘mate’.”

The word made Quintus feel immediately hot, like he was on fire despite the shivers still lancing through his body. He shifted uncomfortably from beneath his mountain of blankets, all of which Wyn had dumped upon his person the moment they’d stepped into the temple. She had been rather careful with him, in her own brusque way. She’d treated him like glass since the start of their journey, taking the place as his protector, so perhaps it shouldn’t have surprised him either that the great dragon on the summit would think they had such a bond.

Still…his cheeks felt entirely too warm and Arngeir chuckled again at his reaction.

“Dragons bond with only one other, and can sense when a bond of that nature exists. Paarthurnax must have seen something between you two that made him suspect you shared it with the Dovahkiin,” Argneir explained in his soft but potent voice. 

Quintus cleared his throat and stared at the fire long after the Graybeard left him to his musings, wondering what it would take to foster such a relationship with Wyn.

Ahmul…what a deep, powerful word.

 

**Translations:  
** Ahmul – bond / mate  
Yol – fire  
Tinvaak – conversation  
Jahrii - husband 


	26. Dartwing

It was difficult to believe that the trip home was such a fast journey. The quest had taken close to a month. They had traversed the wilderness and visited many places that Quintus never thought he would see. That it would take only three days to return to Windhelm left him very shocked indeed, and certainly a little upset too, though he did not show it.

“Imagine!” he exclaimed as they came within sight of the massive gates. “Sleeping in an actual bed and not having to worry about being stabbed in the night!” And there was a great many other things he was excited for too. Like being able to open his shop up again and return to his alchemy. And eating late breakfasts and seeing his master again. And of course getting the Phial ready. That was something he’d spent much time thinking about.

Wyn chuckled and responded with an amused, “Yes, those certainly are things to look forward to. I’m surprised you lasted as long as you did out in the wilds, to be honest.”

At this, Quintus sent her a glowering look that told her just what he thought about her baited words. He huffed and shifted in his saddle, “I was perfectly fine, thank you very much. Though I had a rough start, I’ll admit. And I still haven’t gotten used to riding all day in a saddle.” 

He cringed at that, because it was so very true. His rear end hurt like no tomorrow, and he wouldn’t bother thinking about the other overly sensitive parts of his anatomy that had to put up with being chafed and mistreated during the lengthy journey. Yes, he was looking forward to being back in his shop. And yet…

What would become of them? It had been something he’d thought about for many days now. She was the Dragonborn and no doubt had many things to keep her busy…and away from him. And what if she decided that she wasn’t all that interested in him after all? When they settled back into mundane life, what if she realized he had no place in her grand, warrior life? He kept silent on these worries, but he could not deny that they had grown substantially the closer they got to Windhelm. And by the time they reached the stables and dismounted at last, he could hardly think of anything else.

Ulundil wasn’t around to stable their horses, but Wyn knew what she was doing as she led the mounts into the enclosed area. Quintus followed, having learned at least a little bit about horse tack and bridles and the like. He had a basic understanding of many things he never thought he’d have, such as fighting and other warrior-things. And so he was able to pull the saddle off his horse and remove the bridle and even begin to brush the beast down. Together, he and Wyn worked in quiet, companionable silence as they dealt with the horses and made sure they were comfortable for the night. When they were at last finished, Wyn gathered all the brushes and tools and put them back. 

“Should we go to your shop? I’m sure you’re eager to start working on the Phial,” she said, and he chuckled.

“I think I’m more eager for a good night’s sleep first,” he told her with a cheeky smile, and as they began walking up towards the gates of the city, he wondered how long it would be before the course of their friendship changed. They were no longer in the wilds, where heady romance could be cultivated without worry. They both had reputations to look after, and separate lives to live. This, surely, had to be the end. Right?

But Wyn, tranquil as ever, merely smiled and told him, “I’ll come by your shop tomorrow morning. Make some of those sausages, hmm?” 

And it felt so natural that Quintus could only stare, and laugh, and nod, and say, “Make it late morning. I plan on sleeping in tomorrow.”

She caught his eye and said, “Have a good sleep, alchemist.” And before he could wonder at the look in her eye and at the strange yearning that overcame him, Wyn was stepping away and leaving him standing by the gates and the inn and the evening people who seemed to stroll along like ghosts among this haunted city.

He turned and started walking back to his shop, feeling very much changed compared to the man he’d been before, the last time he’d made this walk. And as he stepped through the quiet, empty market and saw his shop waiting earnestly at the end of it, he wondered just what, exactly, he felt. Happiness? Familiarity? Certainly. But also a deep welling sense of frightening grief tunneled through the entirety of him and made him very afraid.

He paused, swallowed, then reached out and opened the door of the shop he’d lived in for the better half of his life. Inside, nothing had changed, and he wasn’t sure if he was pleased or very much unhappy about it. Perhaps he’d never be happy living this dull life anymore, for Wyn had done the impossible: made the merchant into an adventurer. Made him long for stars and quests rather than cotton mattresses and routines. Made him long for her. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next time Quintus Navale saw the Dragonborn, he was utterly _prepared_ for it, and yet also so completely unprepared that he could hardly function. He couldn’t sleep either. Perhaps it was simply the strange feeling of finally being home again. He’d dreamt of returning ever since he started the quest, but now that he was safe and comfortable it felt wrong, like he almost didn’t belong behind his counter or beside his alchemy station. Like he was just a tenant in the building, a ghost wandering a borrowed imprinted home. He didn’t feel like Quintus Navale. Something had changed within him and there was no going back to the man he once was. He could scarcely imagine the simplicity in which he had lived only weeks before.

And yet here he was again, rolling out of bed and padding over the worn floorboards to where the coals blazed dully in the hearth. He built the fire back up before going upstairs to check on his master, who was still bedridden and barely conscious, as he’d been all month. The man who Quintus had hired to look after the Altmer was gone now, and the house was quiet and empty and deadened. He lingered near the bedside for a while, pressed a cool, damp rag over his master’s forehead, and watched over him. When his stomach began to grumble he moved back downstairs.

Wyn was not there yet and he had no idea when she would arrive, but Quintus began to prepare breakfast anyway. He was hungry and there was a case of Imperial sausages ready to open. Soon they were laid out over a frying pan on the coals, and Quintus was riffling around for some eggs and tomatoes to go with it. He was in the middle of slicing the tomatoes for frying when the door suddenly swung open and in stepped the woman he was waiting for. He never would have thought he’d have the Dragonborn over for breakfast.

Wyn cast one look at him and raised an eyebrow, giving him a rather dry expression that made him pause. She shut the door with her heel and slung her knapsack onto the counter. He was vaguely wondering why she felt the need to bring that everywhere she went when she drawled, “Looks like you’ve settled right back into things.” He chuckled.

“Hardly,” he told her, sprinkling some spice onto the tomatoes. “I couldn’t sleep a wink last night. The mattress was too comfortable.” He threw her a crooked smile that made her stare, and then turned to slide the tomatoes onto the frying pan beside the sausages. 

While his back was turned, Wyn tilted her head and examined him thoroughly. Wispy, unkempt hair. Rumpled clothes. Sleeves rolled up to his elbows despite the chill. He looked…well, oddly enough he looked rather fierce. Not quite as fierce as a warrior, but passable perhaps as someone more ferocious than a mere city alchemist.

“I hope you’re hungry,” he said lightly, turning the sausages with a fork. “I made extra.” Let it not be said that Imperials were ungracious hosts. 

“I guess so,” Wyn shrugged, dropping herself into the chair near the door and putting her feet up onto the table. As for Nords…well, they didn’t exactly make for the most well-mannered guests, but he’d gotten used to Wyn’s brusque nature.

He took one look at her mud caked boots and exclaimed, “Off the table, now! That’s polished mahogany, Wyn. Really. Warriors.” He muttered some other things that sounded like thinly veiled insults and Wyn smirked. She watched in amusement but made sure to put her feet down onto the floor.

Something struck her then, about how easily they got along together now. How simple it was to be themselves around each other, to a point where it was perfectly natural to show their annoyance at another’s actions. The first few months of their acquaintanceship, Quintus had been overly polite even when Wyn knew he didn’t want to be. She quite liked the changes between them, especially the intimacy behind every gaze.

Wyn leaned back as Quintus approached her, carefully setting the tiny round table with two plates, two embroidered napkins, and two mugs of what looked like - 

“Is this milk?” Wyn asked in surprise, peering over the edge of the mug with a strange look on her face.

Quintus, on his way back to the hearth, turned around with a shrug, “Do you not like milk?” 

He considered it a treat, personally. Back home in the Imperial City, such luxuries were so easy to come by. Milk was a common normality. Everyone drank it. For some reason though, up here in Skyrim the drink wasn’t as normal. Perhaps it was the breed of cows? He stared over at Wyn, waiting for her explanation, but all he received from her was that strange, half-amused half-annoyed expression.

The last person to ask her a question like that got a face full of wood. She stared at Quintus and felt laughter bubble up within her. Of course she knew that Quintus hadn’t meant to offer insult, but he’d lived in Skyrim for twelve whole years! Didn’t he know by then about warriors and milk-drinker insults? She found it more amusing than annoying, but the look on his face was just too funny to pass up. He looked like a cornered rabbit. Perhaps he finally remembered, then.

“A-ah…I have tea, as well,” Quintus jumped up, darting around to riffle through a nearby cabinet. He was only able to take a peek into the contents of it, however, before a hand clasped around his forearm and shoved him backwards. Before he even knew what was happening, Quintus was being pressed rather diligently against the wall, covered by Wyn’s lethal figure as she pushed him back.

It was the stuff of Quintus’s dreams, at least of late. He had fallen for this Nord hard and fast. Dreaming of her was hardly surprising. But the manner of her hold was perhaps not as seductive as he had pictured in the sanctuary of his bedroll. This Wyn was not soft, not purring with pleasure, not leaning forward to kiss him. No. This Wyn looked dangerous.

She was a terrible actor, but then again she wasn’t so much as acting as she was proving a point. Quintus took one look in those golden glowing eyes and turned his head. She fought off a smile, fought off the desire that curdled through her at having their bodies so entwined. And then she murmured very softly, “Do you think me a milk-drinker, Quintus?” 

There was danger in her voice, but most especially in the way she whispered his name with that rough-tumbled grace.

He could only stare at her. He was taller than her by at least four inches – not such an impressive fact considering the stocky frame of most Nords – and yet she always appeared to be so much taller than him. It was the weight of her titles that gave her the extra airs. It was the power of her every movement and the lethal purr of her voice. But today it was another thing too: the simple fact that he was so very fascinated by her. Almost, though perhaps not yet, to the point of him being in love. His heart certainly twisted off into a quick betrayal of pattering beats. Beats that he was positive her sharp hearing could plainly hear.

He breathed out, an exhalation of slow shaky desire. Here he was, pressed against the wall by this gorgeous, powerful woman. What man wouldn’t go crazy? And Quintus was a man, even though he often tried his hardest to discern the differences between males of the different races. A Nord man would not hesitate to kiss her right then. A Nord man would probably have already ripped her armor off and would be dragging her into the throes of passion. 

But an Imperial? No, he could not kiss her. He could only stand there and stare down at her, weighing the situation in his head and wondering what she would do next. And as for a response to her question, forget it: Quintus could hardly even remember what she had said, let alone form actual words through the thick layer of his own murky desire.

Wyn raised an eyebrow at him. Her fingers drifted over the thin tunic he was wearing. It was old, worn - one of his master’s hand-me-downs that fit him. It was wrinkled from sleep and probably needed a good wash, too, but Wyn hardly seemed to care. Her eyes beckoned him. Her fingers rose further to tangle into his messy hair. And then her lips barely brushed against his, and Quintus’s eyes fluttered because Divines, how was she so good at this? She had seduced him before he even realized it, and all he could think about was her armor and how he’d like to unbuckle every piece and lavish attention on every revelation of her skin.

“I haven’t had milk since I was a babe at my mother’s breast,” she told him then, suddenly ripping from him the fierce desire that had taken hold of his thoughts. Yet still it circled like an ever-present hawk clawing at the footholds of his mind.

He hummed, eyes half lidded, staring down at her mouth. She was so close that he could smell the salt of the White River on her skin, the iron-and-leather scent of her gear, the musk of her freshly washed hair… And somehow he was not an Imperial any longer, and surged forward with all the brashness of a Nord. His hands clenched down on her shoulders and his mouth fiercely molded to hers, heaving her almost backwards at the unexpected force of his ardent need.

To Wyn, though, it was not as unexpected as it was to Quintus, who was indeed taken aback at his own actions even as he kissed her. Wyn had almost anticipated it, in a way that intuition festers into gut reactions and rough premonitions. She had seen the darkening of his eyes, the desire building within them. She had sensed the subtle shift of his energy as it focused on one thing and one thing only. And so she met him with equal fervor, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him back with all the ferocity of a wildcat attacking its prey.

Yet Quintus was not prey, not this time, and neither was he the weak Imperial he had always known himself to be. He met her challenge head-on, hands drifting over her armor despite the fact that it rather covered her curves. Didn’t matter. He was kissing her and touching her and for once in his life, Quintus was not afraid.

Intimacy usually frightened him, especially up here in this cold region. At least back home in Cyrodiil, affairs were kept quiet and were elegant and full of subtle innuendos and careful looks. Here sex was just sex, and anyone who wanted it just went and got it. There were no quiet, elegant looks, no subtleties…unless those subtleties included ostentatiously meeting in the local inn for a bedroom scuffle and some cheap wine afterwards. 

Nordic intimacy had always seemed so brash and careless to him. Marriage, too. How could you just meet someone and automatically decide that you wanted them for a spouse? And how could you just pick up a person and invite them into your bed for the night, only to leave them there come morning? It was cold and careless, but this…this was neither.  
Wyn was warm in his arms. She was real. And the way she was kissing him made his entire body ache as if it was a drum of beating pleasure. Did she always kiss men like this? Her lips moved in such a gentle but dominant, I-can’t-live-without-you way. And in that moment he could believe it, he could believe that she needed him in order to survive, simply because of the way she kissed him now.

They stumbled back, away from the wall. He pushed her against the edge of the counter and pressed his hips into hers. They were locked together in such a way that his heat was hers; his breath was hers; his pleasure, hers. All hers, everything was hers. He would surrender anything she wanted just to keep this bliss alive between them.

Yet it was not meant to be. Even as Wyn was tugging at his shirt, slipping her hands beneath it to tear it away – even as Quintus was roughly grappling at the buckles at her sides – a knock on the door halted every whisper of passion that passed between the pleasure of their kiss.

They stopped with a gasp. Quintus heaved, panting against her, clenching his hands tightly into her armor as he tried to regain his control, which was utterly swept away into the murky parts of his brain. Wyn didn’t even bother. She merely took a deep breath and smirked up at him, like she was intensely proud that she had successfully pushed him so far and made him want her so very much. He huffed at her and ducked in for one last kiss, which he administered with a quick nip that was meant as punishment but only made Wyn that much crazier. He didn’t seem like the biting type, after all.

The knock came again, more impatiently, and Quintus groaned. 

“You should probably answer that, lest you want to lose a precious customer,” Wyn whispered at him with a twinkle in her eye and a teasing lilt to her voice. 

He glowered at her and said rather imperiously, proud that there was no trace of scratchy passion in his words, “The shop doesn’t open for another hour. I’m sure it isn’t a customer.” The information made Wyn shrug and push off of the counter, sauntering back to her chair as if the entire kiss hadn’t even happened. 

Oh, she was so very good at shutting those parts of her away. Quintus was almost jealous. His chest was still heaving and his face was probably flushed. He reached up to pat his hair down and straighten his tunic, and then marched as fearlessly as he could to the door to see who on earth interrupted the best kiss of his damned life. He would be giving whoever it was an earful on timing.

But when he opened the door and saw a guard waiting in the snowy streets beyond, the annoyed words died on Quintus’s lips. He raised his eyebrows and asked, “Um. Can I help you?” 

Did something happen at the shop while he and Wyn were off traipsing through Skyrim? Was he in trouble? Had his Imperial registration expired and he was going to be shipped back to Cyrodiil? His hands began to sweat as worries rankled him, but they were quickly put to rest when the guard narrowed his eyes in confusion and glanced around behind Quintus, looking for someone else.

“I was told that the Lady Dragonborn was seen entering your shop, alchemist,” the guardsman said in an authoritative yet seemingly bored voice. “The Jarl would like to speak with her.”

Wyn, who was still sitting at the little round table, rolled her eyes and pulled herself up. She doubted she looked very much like a Lady Dragonborn at this moment. Her cheeks were still flushed red and she felt giddier than all the maidens in Skyrim put together. But hiding those emotions was simple, and as she slid up to the door, Wyn’s expression was blanketed into a carefully bored stare. She ducked beneath Quintus’s arm to rest against the threshold and gave the guard a very solemn, very serious look.

“What could the Jarl have to say to me?” she asked, eyes shifting into the guard’s. The man looked rather surprised to suddenly see her there, standing underneath Quintus’s outstretched arm as the Imperial shopkeeper leaned against the threshold over her. The two of them looked almost like they fit together there in that shop, as if the Dragonborn and the alchemist were equals in some grandiose way that the guard couldn’t figure out.

Wyn crossed her arms and stared into the guard’s eyes. Quintus felt it before he saw it – that subtle pulsating shift of her power. The guard hardly even expected the dominion of her gaze. He could only stand there and stare at her in a mindless, eager way, like he wanted her control and her power over him. Curious now, Quintus watched these events carefully, for it was the second time that he had observed Wyn using this power on another person. He wondered if he looked that drone-like when he was captivated by her golden dragon eyes.

“…The war, my Lady,” the guard mumbled in belated response to Wyn’s question. It sounded odd to have Wyn called such an honorable title. Not that she wasn’t honorable in every way (she was the thrice damned Dragonborn for Arkay’s sake), but to hear it from a member of the notoriously rude guardsman made Quintus feel almost small. It was a familiar feeling whenever he was side by side with her, but today he refused to let it control him in the same way it often did. After all, he had just kissed her with every ounce of his desire and came out of it unscathed, and that had to count for something.

Wyn didn’t seem at all impressed at the mention of the war. She had told him once that she was not loyal to the Stormcloaks or the Legion, but only to herself. She hardly felt that it was her place to turn the tides of the Civil War. She was the Dragonborn and not a pawn piece to be played in a rebellion, but neither Ulfric nor Tullius seemed to agree with that sentiment, and Quintus could see why. She would make a lethal general.

“I’ll come and see him when I’m finished with my breakfast,” Wyn drawled, and then shattered the contact between her and the guardsman with a single bored shrug. 

She turned her eyes away and was about to duck back into the shop when the guard exclaimed, “But the Jarl wants to speak with you now! He is very busy today – “

Quintus would never forget the look that Wyn sent the guard at that moment. It was more of a slicing contemptible sneer than a look, actually, and it cut the guard right into a silence that seemed to drag into forever. What power she had, to instill such respect and fear into a man who was trained not to let such things get to him.

“He will have to make room for me, then,” she said, her voice a low warning that sounded almost like the dull growling roar of a dragon. The guard shivered, ducked his head, and bowed very slightly. With that he scuttled away and disappeared into the lightly snowing marketplace, which was still silent in the early morning dawn.

As Quintus shut the door, he couldn’t help but worry at her words. That was no way to address a Jarl’s direct orders, after all. But he could not imagine that Wyn would act in any other way, and neither could he imagine that she would get punished for her insolence. Wyn never seemed to get punished for that part of her, even though it was such a large aspect of her personality and it baffled him.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she muttered at him as she stormed back inside. He cleared his throat, shifted his shoulders back, and remained silent. Instead, Quintus merely returned to the hearth to fork the sausages onto a plate. As he did the same to the rest of the food, Wyn sat back down and riffled in her pack. His back was turned to her and he didn’t see what she was doing, but when he began to walk toward her with the food, he noticed that she had her journal open and was musing over a page of it.

He set the place down and took a seat in the other chair. “…What are you looking at?” he wondered, though he’d prefer to address the rather large issue of why Ulfric Stormcloak wanted her and why she was trying so hard to annoy the important Jarl.

Wyn made a noncommittal noise and flipped a page, eyes running back and forth as she searched for something. She didn’t answer him immediately, and so Quintus just rolled his eyes and started to fill her plate with breakfast like the good host he was. And, like the terrible guest _Wyn_ was, she hardly even noticed. 

“Oh nothing,” she waved her hand impassively, “just trying to figure out what city I should hide in next. Ulfric can’t bother me if he thinks I’m helping someone. There’s a smith in Markarth who needs a daedra heart. Know where I can find one?” 

The question took him so off guard that Quintus nearly spilled his drink. He peered down into the milk and thought of the recent conversation they just had about milk-drinkers. It seemed like ages ago even though only a simple press of seconds separated that moment from this one.

She wanted to leave already? Just to avoid the Jarl? And to Markarth?! That city was _days_ away, weeks in bad weather, and Quintus couldn’t leave his shop. Nor, he sullenly thought, would she welcome his company. Sure, they’d shared some kisses. But that hardly constituted for a lifelong companion. He lifted his eyes to glower at her and she raised a pointed brow, like she had no idea what put him in such a foul mood.

As always, words failed him. Or at least the words that meant something. Instead of telling her to stop running away (from the Jarl and himself), he stumbled upon a topic that was much more familiar. 

Quintus spluttered for half a second before he blurted angrily, “A daedra heart?! Do you know how hard those are to find? And if you do happen to find one, are you even aware of how difficult it is to keep it from spoiling? The magical essence leaks out of the tissue unless you package it just right – “ 

He could have gone on to tell her the precise methods of packaging such a delicate ingredient and how long she would have before it spoiled on the road…but Wyn didn’t seem all that interested in the information. She only smirked at him, leaned forward, and somehow managed to look seductive even in her armor and messy hair and – 

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Quintus scowled, leaning back. Whenever she had that look in her eyes, he felt like prey beneath her. He knew instinctively that she was about to take him off guard. It was one of her favorite hobbies after all, but nothing could prepare him for her next words.

“I want you,” she told him simply, but the passion in her eyes off-set the calmness of her words. She wanted him? She wanted _him?_

He paused, opened his mouth then shut it. Opened it again. Shut it. Then in a halted voice he wondered, “…Erm. For what?” Even though he was quite aware of exactly what she was referring to. Extremely aware, that is, and the rest of his body knew it too. The blood in his veins boiled with desire.

Wyn laughed. For what? How silly her alchemist was. She peered at him and twisted her mouth up into a smile. She couldn’t remember ever wanting someone as much as she wanted him. The fire of her passion suddenly surged beneath her skin, making her ache for him. How easy it would be, to drag him to the counter and have her wicked way with him. It was a rather impressive counter, after all. Perfect for love. Wide enough to have him on his back with plenty of room to spare. She would have to move all that alchemy stuff out of the way but what an ideal space.

Wyn leaned back and swung an arm over the back of the chair casually. She lifted the sausage to her lips and bit into it. Quintus swallowed. He watched, captivated, as she ate it. Piece by piece. Bite by bite. Until it was gone and she was licking her fingers and then her lips, and he had to suppress a very stark desire to knock the table away from them and kiss that mouth and those fingers.

He’d never known Nord women to be teases. Usually they just stumbled into things without thinking. The few sexual encounters he’d had with Nord women had been quick and fast, with hardly any foreplay and never any banter. It was as stark as Skyrim itself; an honest exchange of pleasure for pleasure, and then it was over. But Wyn seemed to be forever spinning his expectations out of balance and making him wonder if he even knew Skyrim or its people at all.

“I wonder if all Imperial sausages taste so wonderful,” Wyn crassly said, innuendo plain in her voice, and Quintus blushed a rosy hue that made her laugh outright.

She exploded in that laughter and at once the desire turned to lighthearted amusement and delicious smiles. Quintus chuckled too, after he was able to regain some of his original coloring, and muttered, “Do shut up, Wyn.” 

She thankfully did, at least where innuendoes were concerned.

“I should get to the Palace,” she sighed after another moment of chuckling, and stood. She’d only eaten half of her food, but Quintus had a feeling she’d be back later. If she wasn’t, there would be certain hell to pay, especially if he found out that she’d left Windhelm without even saying goodbye. But she smiled at him, winked, and turned. Nothing in her countenance hinted at her leaving. He wasn’t worried, at least not at that. What he was worried over was something much more…intimate.

He rose to put her plate behind the counter and Wyn threw her cloak around her shoulders. She said something about stopping by later that afternoon and he nodded. Then she opened the door and was halfway out of it when Quintus sighed and mumbled softly to himself, “Do you really want me?” 

It was meant for him alone, but he shouldn’t have been surprised that she’d heard. Wyn heard everything. Her sharp ears picked up sounds that even the Elves could not hear. She stopped, one foot outside and one inside, fingers curled around the doorknob, and looked back at him. 

His back was turned to her but he must’ve realized that she was staring, because when he didn’t hear the door close he turned back to face her. Surprise coated his face, along with a healthy heaping of embarrassment. He had not meant for her to hear that. He’d hardly even realized he was mumbling it to himself until it was already out of his lips.

But Wyn only smiled. Honesty creased her eyes into beautiful shards of gold, like the dawn that blazed just outside the city walls. In a surprisingly gentle voice, she told him, “I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anyone else, Quintus Navale.” 

And then, in a dramatic flurry of her cloak, Wyn winked at him and disappeared, shutting the door behind her.

Quintus could only stare, mouth hanging open as he processed the glorious admission that was easily making its way into his heart.


	27. Torchbug

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please review/comment if you feel like it, it always makes my day :)

The Blue Palace was drafty and dark even with the sun pouring through the thin, frosted windows. Wyn hated this place. She hated the enormous Great Hall and the grandeur of each detail. Mostly she just hated the fact that it took her two whole minutes to walk from the doors to the throne. Ridiculous, really.

“Ah, so the Dragonborn finally decides to show up,” the Jarl’s voice boomed, subtly echoing across the huge room. She simpered indulgently at him, her lips pulling up into a fake smile that was purposefully obvious. Ulfric didn’t seem to care. He just flakily smiled back and told her, “I hear you’ve been spending quite a lot of time in that Imperial’s alchemy shop. Navale, is it? Any important family ties back in Cyrodiil?”

Wyn rolled her eyes. “Ulfric, I’ve told you countless times that I’ve no interest in joining this war. And who I socialize with in my private life has absolutely nothing to do with you.” He opened his mouth to refute her words, but Wyn just barreled forward, “And before you start accusing the alchemist of having ties to the Imperial army, I suggest you do your research. Quintus Navale has been living in Windhelm for more than a decade. The only thing that captures his interest is alchemy.”

Ulfric frowned at her and sighed deeply, struggling to control the anger Wyn felt radiating off of him. It was as if his skin was writhing in a fire that boiled just beneath the surface of it. 

“I gave you the title of Thane. I practically handed you the manor in which you live in. You are free to come and go in my city and _socialize_ with whomever you desire,” he sneered. Wyn frowned at the way he said ‘socialize’, clearly insinuating more than mere friendship. She frowned deeper when he told her, “Never have I asked for anything in return, except for your allegiance in this war.”

She stared at him and straightened her back. In a firm voice, Wyn said, “Thaneship, a house, and free entry to your city – those are the things you mean to barter me with? That is as far as your creativity extends? I told you from the beginning that I had no intention of joining the rebellion. Is it not enough for you that I have not joined the other side either? This is not my battle, Ulfric, and no matter what you do or what riches you offer, it never will be.” And with that, she turned on her heel without another word and arched back to the doors. She needed to get out of this enormous prison.

“You will deeply regret saying such things,” his voice boomed behind her, echoing into her ears. She did not turn around to face him. She would not. “When I win this war, I will remember your refusal, and I will not be so lenient with you as I am today.” Wyn just rolled her eyes.

She glanced behind her shoulder, pausing to say, “I’m more of a ‘live-in-the-moment’ kind of woman, Ulfric. For instance – what if dragons just _randomly_ show up here in Windhelm tonight searching for _me,_ and just so happen to burn the city to a crisp? That would be really quite bad for your war efforts, wouldn’t it? So really, Ulfric, by letting me do the job I was born to do, you’re actually helping yourself.” 

She gave him an edgy smile and then sauntered out of the doors, immediately relieved to be breathing in crisp wintry air. Quintus looked surprised to see her when she returned to his shop. He was in the middle of chopping up some root at his counter when she waltzed inside with her bored expression on her face. Glancing up at her, he raised his eyebrows and commented, “That didn’t take very long. What happened?”

She shrugged noncommittally. “Oh you know. Ulfric attempted to change my mind yet again and join the rebellion and I told him to shove it. What are you doing? Some sort of obsessive potion preparation?”

He immediately scoffed. “I’ll have you know that there’s nothing _obsessive_ about the nature of my work – every step is critical in creating something as volatile as a potion – and you told the Jarl to _shove it?_ How are you not in prison right now?” He didn’t even pause in his chopping as he spoke. If he could wield a sword with as much prowess, he’d be a better fighter than her.

Wyn gave him an amused look and sauntered around the counter to hover by his shoulder. “I’m the _Dragonborn._ You don’t just throw the Dragonborn into prison without facing certain…consequences.” She chewed over the word with a smirk that made Quintus wonder just what those consequences were, and how often they were administered in past transgressions.

He harrumphed and muttered, “One of these days you’re going to eat those words.” She shrugged again, not appearing to really care all that much.

He sighed and said in a louder voice, “Closing the shop for as long as I did means I’m extremely behind on my orders. And Nurelion is getting worse every day. I need to work on the Phial before the ingredients spoil, but…” he trailed off, eyes hard as he looked down at the chopped root.

Wyn nodded and said, “What do you want me to do? Cut things? I’m good at that you know.” She smirked at him and he rolled his eyes.

“Are you certain you’re knowledgeable in these matters?” he asked carefully, not wanting to offend her. He knew she’d dabbled in potion making before, but how much? Did she understand that each ingredient had to be chopped into very small parts in order to speed up the infusion process? Did she know how to put everything together in such a way that the alkaline base remained constant? His profession was a lot more complicated than most people gave him credit for, after all. He was still learning the craft and he’d been at it for almost two decades.

But Wyn just chuckled and said, “Just tell me what to do, alchemist.” The name made him smile quietly to himself.

“Very well,” he agreed, pushing the cutting board in front of her and handing her the knife. “You can finish this for me first. Then chop the rest of the roots so we can begin the infusion with the Mountain Flowers.” He watched her for a moment as she took the knife. She wasn’t quite as fast as him, but Wyn knew her way around a blade. After a moment of getting used to the chopping movements, she gave him a look and said, “Perhaps you should check on Nurelion. You said he was getting worse.”

He cleared his throat and nodded, took one last glance at her, and started for the stairs. She looked so good standing there behind the counter of his shop, almost like she belonged there. Quintus knew he had very little to offer someone as legendary as the Dragonborn, but he couldn’t stop the little daydream from unfolding in his mind. If only every day could be like this…sharing breakfast, helping each other around the shop…it would be a dream come to life.

Upstairs, his master was sleeping. His once golden skin was now a sickly pasty color. Sweat gathered at his brow, and his dreams seemed restless, for every so often he would thrash and murmur. Quintus sighed heavily and sat down in the chair near the bed. 

How had his life gotten so complicated? Only a few months ago, he was just his master’s apprentice. He never would have gone on adventures and wouldn’t have cared about discovering the White Phial. He’d only ever wanted a simple apprenticeship in an alchemy shop in Cyrodiil, a comfortable home, an Imperial wife who understood his love of potion making, maybe even a few children to continue the legacy. Instead he got Skyrim, a master who loved nothing more than to boss him around and take him for granted, a frozen frigid wasteland chock-full of stubborn brash Nords…and one in particular who he had rather carelessly fallen in love with.

Quintus paused, fingers tightening around the cloth that he was in the middle of wringing out. Was he in love with Wyn? No. No way. He was merely attracted to her because she was gorgeous and happened to be a legend in her own right. People were attracted to those qualities, weren’t they? His time living in Skyrim had made him more open to other forms of attraction. No longer did the demure Imperial lady offer him any excitement. The complicated courting rituals of his homeland seemed downright bizarre this far North, where love and life were seen in much more black and white a manner. So he was attracted to Wyn and that was it.

And he liked the way she was attracted to him, too. It gave him such confidence! He liked the way she kissed him, the feel of it, the burn of it. He liked the thought of living with her – the idea of her keeping house amused him greatly. He could clearly imagine what their life would be like: she would be the first awake, but they would enjoy their mornings slowly. He would cook, clean, and then make her wash the dishes (she’d probably be grumpy about it too). 

They would go out to do the shopping before their alchemy store opened, sauntering down the streets of Windhelm together. She would stay for as long as she could, unless her duties took her away from him. In such a case he would wait for her to return, however long it took, and upon said return he would enact his revenge on her for being away so long…it would be enjoyable for the both of them. And then the next morning they would start over.

He sighed happily at his musings, pressing the cool cloth over his master’s forehead. But as he did so, Quintus was struck with a rather shocking thought: his daydream wasn’t exactly a new one. He’d always wanted such a life, but this time he had merely replaced Wyn with the generic female he had previously envisioned, and had tweaked it to match Wyn’s personality. What did this mean? It meant, of course, that Quintus could see them together. In the long run. As in married. And that meant that he felt something more than mere attraction for her.

He did not fall in love easily. Or at all. But when he did, Quintus fell as hard as a comet crashing to earth. How easily the cycle came to full stop. How easily he had convinced himself that he was only attracted to her. Those kisses, desperate and chilly and passionate, meant more to him than something as superficial as simple attraction. And yes, he was attracted to her, but not just to her looks or her power or her beauty. He loved her personality, her serenity, her brashness, even the way she could decapitate a man with only a swing of her arm. (It inspired him even as it horrified him.) Most of all, he loved that she was so soft beneath her hard exterior, that she carried baggage just like the rest of them, that she was capable of feeling human emotions despite her dragon soul predicament.

“Huh,” he mumbled to himself, then swallowed the rest of his words. Wyn’s hearing was impeccable. He wasn’t sure if she could hear from such a distance, but spilling his meanderings out loud while she was in the vicinity seemed like a bad plan. No. Like any good Imperial, he would not rush into this new discovery. He would first work out all the pros and cons of such a partnership and attempt to figure out if Wyn wanted the same thing. And only when he was absolutely positive that she did would he consider saying anything. That was the smartest option, he thought with a nod, and sighed.

Here he was, daydreaming about romance (of all things!) when his master was dying beside him. Quintus wrung out the cloth once more and stood up, fixing the blankets and fusing over the lighting of the room. He was in the middle of checking the reserves in the oil lamp beside the bed when Nurelion groaned and turned, eyes fluttering.

Quintus paused, peered over at the elf, and murmured, “Master?” Nurelion was a surprisingly quiet patient – he hadn’t made much noise in the last few days since their return. It was the first sign of life Quintus had seen.

“Oh…who knew dying was such a…mhm…bore…” Nurelion croaked, scowling at the ceiling. He tried to raise himself up on weak elbows, and Quintus hurried to help, propping several pillows up behind him.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, and winced when Nurelion sent him a silencing glower. Stupid question, he thought with an awkward chuckle.

“How d’you think, boy?” Nurelion demanded, sounding a little stronger. “I’m starving. Go get me some stew. Hurry up.” He waved Quintus away and his apprentice sighed, loping out of the room to do his bidding.

As he descended the stairs, Wyn glanced up at him with her customary bored expression. There was a pile of chopped root beside her. She’d already gone through half the supply, and was whipping the knife skillfully over the root without even batting an eye. He admired her quick movements while he approached the hearth.

“He sounds grumpy,” Wyn commented, and Quintus chuckled.

“Not any more than usual,” he admitted with a shrug. He inspected a wooden bowl to make sure it was clean before filling it with a few spoonfuls of stew. It was leftover from the other night. He had put it on the fire to warm up, but now Quintus wondered if he shouldn’t go out and get something more before the stores closed for the day. Nurelion was never particularly kind to him, but he was the only father figure that Quintus had once he left the Imperial City. He figured his dying master deserved something a little nicer than boring old stew.

He would make a note of that and add it to the endless list of other things he had to do. Life truly was a complicated mess these days…but at least he had company.  
Wyn glanced over at him and raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you taking that up to him?” 

As it was, Quintus was just standing there holding the bowl with a thoughtful look on his face. Her words made him jump and blush, shaking his thoughts away. He glanced at Wyn and mentioned, “Perhaps you’d go to the market once you’re finished and get some beef? And…” he paused, riffling around beneath the counter until he pulled out a spare bit of paper and a quill. He jotted down several other vegetables and foods that he thought he could use. “…You don’t mind, do you? I would go myself – “

“But you’ve got a sick master to deal with,” Wyn finished for him with a shrug. She wiped her fingers on a nearby cloth and took the shopping list from him with a rather strange, amused look in her eye. “It’s been many years since I’ve done something so mundane,” she explained to his questioning expression, and he rolled his eyes.

“Of course, how on earth could I forget? You’re a Nordic warrior legend. Of course you wouldn’t have time to go shopping,” Quintus muttered in a playfully scoffing way, and Wyn chuckled.

“More like I try not to go out in public if I can help it,” she admitted to him, pushing her hair out of her face. He stared curiously, but he understood. He knew enough about her dislike of her own titles, having learned the full force of this hatred while they were in Ivarstead. So, feeling a little guilty for asking this of her, Quintus pursed his lips and told her, “I will go in an hour then. You are my guest – “

Wyn laughed and caught his eye. “Alchemist,” she murmured deliciously, “I told you I would go. Besides, the market is on your doorstep. It will not take long.” She sent him one last amused look before turning back to the roots and ordering, “The Old Man must be cursing your name all the way to Sovngarde by now. Either that or he has starved himself to death.”

Quintus glowered at her. “Very funny,” he huffed, but heeded her words. A moment later he was walking back up the stairs and leaving her to finish her root preparation. Wyn smiled to herself, amused at this strange life she suddenly found herself in. Never had she imagined that she would have such an intimate place in this little shop, or in an alchemist shopkeeper’s life. It certainly wasn’t something she had signed up for, but the peace that accompanied this new adventure gave her more satisfaction than she’d felt in a very long time.

Quintus was one of many things that dropped unexpectedly into her life, but that didn’t mean Wyn didn’t intend on finding some way to fit him more solidly into it.


	28. Nightshade

When she returned from the market, Quintus was leaning over his alchemy station with a dozen or so bottles of what appeared to be health potions. Most of them were uncorked and Quintus looked like he was checking them. They must have been curing, then, and were no doubt ready to sell.

He looked up at her entrance and would’ve returned immediately to his work had he not seen the hulking bag of produce she had easily slung over her shoulder. Her other hand was carrying a stuffed canvas bag of what must have been meat. He dropped everything to gape at her.

“What’s all that?” he asked in astonishment, and Wyn shrugged. She looked as serenely uncaring as always, even as she dumped a bag of fruits onto the counter, just beside the others. She must’ve spent a _fortune._

Feather’s properly ruffled, Quintus marched over to the food and went through the bags, getting more annoyed with each passing second. Wyn must’ve been expecting his reaction, because she just propped her chin on her palm and blinked at him. Her blasé expression only seemed to make him that much angrier.

“What in Arkay’s name is this, Wyn?! How much money did you spend? This is going to last us _months_ and will probably go _bad – “_

She just smiled demurely at his red face and calmly interrupted, “I can spend my money however I see fit, alchemist. And besides, it won’t go bad. My Housecarl buys this much every week and we manage to finish it off between just two people by the end of it.” Granted, her and her Housecarl were both brawny warriors who needed the heavy foods, but still. 

But Quintus just gaped at her even more, spluttering out, “Your money? You used your own money to buy our food? That’s – that’s not right, Wyn. You’re _my_ guest – I won’t have you - “

“Relax, Quintus,” Wyn told him, patting his shoulder with a gloved hand. “Allow me to show you the hospitality of the Nords for once. I have to pay for my keep, after all. And you’ve done quite a lot for me over the past few months.” He saved her from that poisoned wound, let her live here until she was better, and of course made her feel things she never thought possible, which was the best of them all.

“But – “

“Just go back to your work,” Wyn ordered him, golden eyes smoldering into his. He blinked, sighing. 

“That’s cheating,” he mumbled to her, not appreciating the compelling way her eyes made him want to obey her. But Wyn just chuckled and turned back to the food.  
“I’ll get this put away,” she said, and sent him a smile that made his knees feel like his bones were melting away. He cleared his throat and nodded, his arguments turning to dust as he watched her heave up the heavy bags as if they were nothing and saunter to the storeroom. 

She was strong for a woman – or at least according to his Imperial terms. Such shows of strength might have made him blanch in disappointment once, for the sheer idea of her not living up his people’s notion of a woman’s full potential. But the cultural boundaries between them had long diminished, and he could not think of her in any other light…nor would he want her any other way. Her strength compelled him to be strong as well. Indeed it inspired him.

He turned back to his alchemy table and the curing health potions, trying to turn his thoughts back to matters of importance. Like how many things he still had to do just to get the shop back in order. They were so behind! Yet – for reasons now known to him, Quintus could think of nothing but Wyn, and after several moments of stumbling through the movements he sighed and leaned back. He would get no work done tonight, or perhaps any other night that Wyn stayed with him. His every thought was bent upon her, and it warmed him to know that she was in the other room. Nearby, close to him, just a few footfalls away.

He abandoned his work to instead return to his master’s bedside, taking a few notebooks with him. Upstairs, he threw another log on the fire and then went to sit beside Nurelion, who was sitting up with a book propped up in his lap. The bowl of stew was sitting on the bedside table, only half eaten.

“Master, you need to eat if you want to keep your strength,” Quintus gently chided with a frown, and Nurelion huffed and rolled his eyes, the same way he would when Quintus forgot to do a chore or came up short in his training. Such an expression used to offend him, but now it only made Quintus feel resigned. How many more times would he witness such a display or hear his master’s scolding tone? He would miss the old elf. He wasn’t ready for him to die yet.

“Oh hush,” Nurelion quipped back, waving him away. “As if I need you to tell me how to spend my final days.” 

Quintus might’ve said something in return to that, but he was never given the chance. A moment later, Nurelion turned the book in his lap to Quintus, pointing at the text, “Look here. The mixture that will repair the phial needs to be cold. It doesn’t say how much of each ingredient we’ll need, but I’ve started a recipe that I hope will work.”

“You should be resting, not working,” Quintus said a little grumpily, aware even as the words passed his lips that he sounded a bit like a petulant child. 

Nurelion appeared to agree wholeheartedly. He gave Quintus his best glower (a very accomplished, hardy expression), and burst, “I have been lying in this bed for weeks! I will do as I please, boy.” 

And Quintus, feeling thoroughly rebuked, only muttered a faint, “Yes, master…” that made him feel very much a child and not the grown man he was.

Looking a little more satisfied, Nurelion grumbled and turned back to the book. Silence fell upon them momentarily, broken a few minutes later when the elf muttered, “Is the Nord still here? I swear she never leaves anymore. An old man can’t get any peace even on his deathbed. Bah!”

Looking a little alarmed at the mention of Wyn, Quintus glanced up in surprise. “She is downstairs stocking the storeroom. She’s been a tremendous help over the last few days alone.” He tried to keep his expression and the tone of his voice calm, but he feared that perhaps he didn’t do a good job of it. His master looked thoroughly unconvinced and gave him a very dry look.

Nurelion didn’t skirt around subjects. Not like the average, ever-polite Imperial would. Not even like many of his Elven brethren did. He was an Elf of different stock than his forebearers – perhaps all Elves who lived in this desolate country were – and he could see the affection in his apprentice’s eyes clear as day whenever the Nord was brought up for conversation. He knew Quintus favored her, and the thought of it rather amused him. Quintus was, after all, such a different sort of man than that woman. 

Vast social and cultural differences separated them, casting an entire sea between them. Yet somehow they found a way to bridge it, to part the waters – to find the similarities in that ocean of disparity. Yes, these shaky affections amused him, but they also brought Nurelion a comfort that he could not describe. 

“Hmph,” the old Elf muttered, “Well she ought to tell you of her intentions with you. Or are you already betrothed and didn’t tell me?” 

He obviously meant it as a joke, but Quintus’s cheeks flared a bright red that had Nurelion choking back surprise – which soon turned to harried coughs. And these coughs drew the attention of the one person Quintus did not want present for this particular conversation.

“Are you choking yourself to death, old man?” Wyn asked, brushing back a wave of worry at the sight of him. Nurelion scowled at her and laid back. He definitely looked alright. She didn’t know what had happened to make him sound like he was choking down fire itself, but it was over now. She sent Quintus a smile, and turned to leave. She still had a lot of work to do downstairs.

But Nurelion called out, “Stop! Come here, Nord. I think it’s high time you tell me what intentions you have towards my apprentice – I will not have you putting this shop out of business after I’m dead!” 

Quintus groaned, pressing a hand over his blushing cheeks. Wyn turned around again in surprise, then started chuckling. It was a reaction Quintus rather anticipated – she hardly took anything seriously, least of all human emotions. Though…he couldn’t deny the desire he had for her to lay down those intentions and set the bar. At least then he would know if he stood a chance at marriage.

“Oh? Are you worried I might steal him away with the other women and children?” the joke had her laughing to herself, but Quintus only blushed all the more furiously. He could only imagine himself, useless, helpless, being buffeted around with females and babes. Did she count him as one of them? Unworthy of her time, save for charitable rescues?  
Nurelion sharply put an end to her jokes with a well placed, “Silence! Now look here, Nord, my apprentice is absolutely useless! He’s a terrible alchemist! He’s forgetful and scrawny! But he’s still my last hope of keeping this shop thriving after I’m gone – and damn it, I won’t have you speaking about him like that!”

Wyn fell quiet, looking a little shocked. She wasn’t the only one surprised. Quintus gaped at his master, for he had never heard Nurelion stand up to him in any way, even if he was degrading him at the same time. 

Ever the diplomat, Quintus warily murmured, “Master…I’m sure she didn’t mean to – “

“You’re right,” Wyn suddenly cut in, looking directly at Nurelion with an oddly serious expression. Something caught in that gaze of hers – something fiery and passionate – something that had Quintus staring. She leaned her weight onto her right leg, looking almost as if she was preparing for some great battle, and said in a louder voice, “The truth is, I don’t know what my intentions are toward your apprentice, but I can assure you that they are and always will be honorable.”

Honor. It was a code that the Nords seemed to live by. A way of life almost. A word that wasn’t just a word, but also a form of expression, of truth, of everything good. It was a blunt word, a scrap of syllables, a hardened fire battered into steel. It was beautiful.

Nurelion stared at her. Quintus stared at her. And Wyn, no doubt thoroughly used to being stared at, just stood there and waited, looking as calm and serene as she always did whenever she pulled the rug out from beneath someone’s feet.

Nurelion was the first to speak. He made a grumbling noise in the back of his throat and muttered, “Well good. Glad to hear it. Does that mean you intend on marrying the poor boy?”   
Quintus choked harshly at the abrupt question and even Wyn looked a little embarrassed. Her cheeks glowed with a very, very faint pink, almost indiscernible.

_“Master!”_ Quintus cried when his voice returned to him moments later. Horrified, he exclaimed, “I don’t think our relationship is any of your business! Even on your death bed.” The addition made Nurelion roll his eyes grumpily.

He knew his master was crass at times, sometimes even more so than the average Nord (which was saying a lot), but he didn’t think Nurelion would say something like _that._ His skin was _crawling_ with embarrassment. Wyn was the _Dragonborn!_ Marriage was probably the farthest thing from her mind. 

His cheeks felt as if they were on fire, and sweat gathered on the back of his neck. Some part of him yearned to hear her answer, to know if she indeed wanted marriage – and him – but the majority of him decided that it really wasn’t fair to her. Asking such a question after only a handful of kisses and only several months of being together was going a little too far. And besides, he didn’t even know if they were together. Wyn had never outright told him if she wanted to go steady.

But the vast cultural differences between Nords and Imperials once more sent his heart into a dizzying spiral, because Wyn’s response to Nurelion’s question was not what Quintus had anticipated. 

The typical Nordic courtship was anywhere from a couple of weeks to a couple of months, and rarely lasted more than a year. In stark contrast, Imperials often remained betrothed for at least two years before a wedding was set, and it wasn’t uncommon to wait even longer should the circumstances demand it. But getting married after only a few months was, in the Imperial eye, highly unacceptable and spoke only of whirlwind romances that wouldn’t last very long.

He supposed that this cultural phenomena that he had grown up with was the primary reason he was so shocked when Wyn slowly said, “Perhaps in a few months…when things have settled – if it is what Quintus wishes – then we will speak of marriage.” 

She didn’t know if she loved him, she didn’t know if love even existed in this twisted world, but what she did know was that this was probably as close as she was ever going to get to it. So what if this relationship shocked her? So what if she had never planned on remarrying, and to a merchant no less? Love came in mysterious ways. No longer could she pretend that she was above those petty human emotions. Indeed she did not want to anymore, not when Quintus was the one stirring such feelings within her.

Quintus turned gaping eyes to her, more surprised than ever to hear such an admission. Should he have been surprised? Perhaps not. Nords spoke whatever was on their minds, good or bad. They did not lie about their feelings – unless of course their pride got in the way. But while Wyn’s pride was strong, she often ignored it as well, a feat that many of her brethren found disagreeable. She cared not. And so Quintus knew that she was speaking truthfully, for she had that look in her eye – the one that said that she would not cower, even from herself.

His heart blossomed in his chest like wildflowers climbing up a misplaced wall, veering off into the abandoned fields of dreams he had long given up on. Suddenly he saw his future clearly, as if looking through a crystal ball. Life would not be easy, being the husband to the great Dragonborn, to a woman like her. But if she would have him, he would gladly give up the comforts of home for the wilds of her heart. He would run into that abandoned field with heart wrenching joy. He would never look back.

Quintus caught her eye briefly amid the grumbling acceptance of his master, and what he saw there made him smile. Was it love that tempered her gaze? Perhaps he would never know, not yet, but the passion that fueled her expression could not be displaced, and he turned away as his dreams manifested right in front of him. 

When she had become his dream, his future, he could not say. It was sometime between the callous first exchanges of their previous selves to the moments spent sharing hasty, endearing kisses in the snow drifts of the Skyrim wilderness. The process of falling in love was unidentifiable – one moment you are as you have always been, and the next you find yourself suddenly competent of accomplishing things you never imagined yourself capable of doing. It was the in-betweens that verged off into unknowable traces. Snow banks adrift with love. Glances made of fable. And somewhere in this inexplicable process, Quintus had fallen very hard indeed. And so, it seemed, had she.

“Well. Well, good. Good.” Nurelion muttered to himself with a nod. His eyes flickered between the two youths, and a very tiny smile curled the edges of his mouth, lighting his eyes in hooded mischief. “Now leave an old man in peace and – boy, bring me something sweet. All this talk of marriage has made me hungry again.”

Quintus bit his lip and stood, hiding away a smile as he busied himself with collecting the half empty bowl of stew. “Yes, master,” he said, glanced at Wyn, and smiling, walked downstairs. 

Wyn turned to follow, but Nurelion’s voice stopped her. “I’ll be holding you to your word, Nord. If you don’t give him a fighting chance, I’ll haunt you from the afterlife, you hear?” Wyn grinned crookedly down at him.

“Loud and clear, old man,” she said flippantly, but not without amusement. And she turned, quickly following after Quintus and bounding down the stairs before Nurelion could delay her any longer. He was in the middle of taking some apples out of the crate in the storeroom when Wyn converged upon him like an ocean on a shore. She grabbed his forearms, twisted him around to face her, and drew him into a kiss that had Quintus immediately dropping the apples to instead snake his arms around her waist. They thudded to the floor, one after the other, just like their hearts. Their common sense, too.

“Wyn,” he gasped, angling her head to kiss her deeper. The moments spent shyly exchanging hesitant affections (at least on his part) were long gone. In its place was a wild inferno that could not seem to be quenched. 

She shoved him against the wall and swept her lips down his neck, nibbling at his skin and pushing her body against his. Without her armor, he felt the entirety of her, and it left him ragged and energized, like he could do anything – everything.

He panted against those shelves, clinging to one of the wooden planks as Wyn pressed him back. It was a wonderful feeling, almost shocking, and it reverberated through him like waves that fed off the tides of his desire. She jerked at the ties of his tunic, flipping the leather stays to the side and moving her kisses over his collarbone, the hollow of his throat, scraping her teeth over his skin with a skill that made him breathless. He gasped, pursed his lips, tried to reign in the ferocity of his passion before it could take physical form – but surprisingly, it was Wyn who drew back before anymore torture could be applied.

Quintus stared at her, half relieved and half wanting. Why did she stop? Her golden eyes flickered up to his, and the inches of space between their lips seemed to suddenly fluctuate through rifts of space-time incoherencies. She was not close enough. She would never be close enough. And he wanted to marry her. These were the truths that suckered at his mind, thudding through him like fire.

“You said you needed to go slow,” Wyn whispered, her only explanation, and sent him a dizzying smirk that made his body flare to life once more. 

Had he really said that? When? Why? He took a shaky breath, a gasp really. His chest shook, his breathing wavered, and then Quintus laughed unsteadily and murmured, “I can’t imagine why I ever said that.” 

The words made Wyn smile.

She leaned forward, brushing her mouth against his. Their lips tilted forward, and suddenly they were kissing more fiercely, more savagely than they had before. Passion thrust them forward, until their bodies were pressed together, until they could no longer discern where one of them ended and the other began. They teetered, swept forward, paved a path across the floor. And then they fell together onto the tiny mattress that Quintus called his own, and life became faded, and dreams became realities. And Nurelion, who was still lying upstairs waiting for his apprentice to bring his food up to him, chuckled to himself when he heard the telltale creak of old bedsprings swinging back and forth and back and forth.

“Crazy young people,” he muttered to himself, and settled back into bed.


End file.
